Darkened glowing spectacles,

Rush by in the lime light of fame,

Of fast paced success,

A caffeinated coffee in hand.

The burning sensation of competition,

And yet the smell utterly,

Like the one of a grungy cigarette butt.

Gangsters rolling their hands over money,

Saying sweetheart do you want some?

And you say that you’re too good,

A little too pretty for this dirty, broken city.

And so the gunshots flare,

Fireworks in the polluted misty sky.

Higher than the skyscrapers,

You once expected to share,

With a man who you now see on the street.

Run, run, run, and the taxis zoom by,

Knowing you do not wish

For a ride.