Oh, you can write all you want.
You can scream at the top of your lungs...but it's not helping.
Get up off your butt, little boy, and go save yourself!
Oh, you tell me it's all too much to take.
...
Excuse me, mister.
Have you seen the children crying?
I'm sorry to be a bother, mister... but
Have you seen the people dying?
...
This is just a dream.
I'll wake up
And you'll be here
Holding me and telling me
...
I'm not dead.
I'm not alive, either.
I go through the motions
And smile like before.
...
I'm just a young mother that likes to pretend to be a poet. I'm probably more of a closet-journalist and, as such, lots of my poems reflect situations and public issue, instead of deep-seeded personal problems.)
Music Of The Street
Uptown
Downtown
Eat-you-alive town.
Nothing here is innocent.
Nothing here is really pure.
There's danger around each corner.
Nothing here is stopping, nothing here is slow.
There's never a moment of silence,
There's never a moment alone.
Horns honking,
People talking,
Vendors yelling,
Children laughing.
The city has a beat,
It pounds into your brain.
There's a rythm to this city, a shuffle that's contagious.
This city's made of music!
It'll stick in your head and never leave.
It's a fantasy.
A daydream.
It grows on you and makes you want to stay.
You become a part of the music of the street.