The first line
Soliciticized, magnified
Overwhelming the boundaries of my immaculate brain
The first line “City is gritty, dark, and hard.”
Making all cease to exist in my mind as I imagine this city, so forlorn
Yet so close to home
I am drawn into this field of gravity
So indefinable, so invisible
As my adrenaline pushes past the beat of my heart forcing me to dissect this poem

The mentioning of the subways
With an endless life speed
Ignites a spark that diminishes due to the presence of this tense environment
As hollow civilians scar the train

The rats scurrying about makes the humans look ashamed
As they scavenge the train
Turning up remains
Unlike humans, they have a found passion
That’s concrete and evident, that can attain them happiness
The lost faces of the train mark what has become of the city
As they pursue a happiness
That was never meant to be sought,
A happiness built upon the false values of materialism
That is truly the city in my eyes

The poem deviates into discussing outsiders
In an indefinite way
Confusing me at a greater scale
Am I an outsider, a local, a hawker, a hooker?
How do I know who I am or what I am in this city that ceases to acknowledge my presence?
Then the grasp of the traffic overtakes me, swirling me in this city
In this city I never grew to love, but I never wanted to hate
How can the streets scorn the zombies who walk them? Displaying no emotion
Now that throws me off a bit

I especially hate
When the verses turn to me
Ridiculing me
Claiming that these streets are littered with a million moving feet, litterers
Am I a litterer?
With my preserved innocence
Or are the people who are hollow in bone, dense at heart
As they follow this city to the realm of destruction
Who is the litterer?
The verses refuse to tell me

The last stanza recaptivates my spirit
As the mentioning of congregation spits back my life at a standstill
Where I pray at a congregation too with my fellow Muslims
Towards the Holy Kabba
But am I a pilgrim too
Or only so in my conscience

That is when I receive the epiphany that the city is timeless
This city, this poem can be my city, my life, MINE
It is here I remember New York City
So gritty, dark, and hard
So alive and dead every step of the way
So what is the city?
The ideal city
There is no such thing as a Utopian city
There will probably never be

I have dissected the poem
I have seen the city at a critical angle
In this one instant, I have
Felt helpless and distraught
That’s what the city means
At least that how I define it