New York Pity ~ one sample of a collection of poems I'm currently working on ~ all by moi
I’m tired.
Nearly expired.
In the thick, heavy trenches I’m stuck. Mired.
It shows on my face—brows heavily perspired.
Like an overstuffed cannon begging to be fired.
Like a job I never accepted, yet somehow hired.
My life a perpetual quagmire.
A taste for disdain is so easily acquired.
The Gods are against me; they’ve all conspired.
There’s nothing here for the weak—strength is required.
I’ve only just begun, but already semi-retired.
Oh to live like those I’ve long admired.
A glitzier, cushier path could have easily transpired.
The art of the hustle is a gift. It must be within; hardwired.
New York can’t simply be retrofired.
She must be worshipped, adored, incessantly inspired.
How, then, does one make it here, you’ve inquired?
Stick it out or get out. Just don’t forget to suspire.