She is as innocent as the babes,
whose marrow paint her walls.
Her cadaver riddled streets sing.
Where the blind musician plays his flute.
Punctuated by the boom of the guns the thugs use to occupy her space.
No one whistles at the dancing whore whose battle worn hips jiggle with every ill-fated move.

There is the smell of ganja in the air.
Iridescence can be found not in neon lights,
but in the smell of the food,
prepared on these streets,
and the music that rumbles through the night.
Nothing is hidden.
It is as it is.
And I, futilely, seek nuances,
and flowery words to convey these;
the things I have seen.

Streets, submerged in survival.
Let me declare, that, alas,
I must concur. Finally.
I am invisible.
Me. And my kin.
Press through this proud land in a state of rage.
Of this body, I am hyperaware.
How is it perceived by the people who say they perceive these streets?
From afar. From Ivory towers.
Men in three-piece suits.
Immaculately attired.
Cleanly shaved.
Who said fascists came in jackboots.
No, my dear.
They come with pens and degrees.
They, callously, have shaped these streets… this proud land.
Coldly. Deliberately.
Not once did they bat an eye.

And I ask for a thousandth time, ad nauseum.
What have I but this pen?
The word is the only shield for me.
My confederate. My friend.

The wounded tree knows what the ax never will.
Bruised. Battered. Worn.
Still, the ax compels me. Bumptiously.
Forget.
Why so bitter?
Why so mad?

You don’t know? No, you don’t.
Perhaps you don’t want to know.
Perhaps I don’t know.
Perhaps I am not.
Perhaps it is hope.
Perhaps it has been eviscerated…
perhaps, it never was

We meet at fierce intervals,
on these streets.
Where semi-clad boys roll abandoned wheels through the smog-filled streets.
At the backdoor of progress they reside.
And I with them.
Peeking through the door I can never enter.
This body racked by varying degrees of savagery from they who deem themselves of the civilized hue.

Image1,Image2

A little about me and poetry

This poem is my submission to the School Poetry 100 Day Challenge hosted by @d-pend, whom I would like to thank for sponsoring this competition. He is indeed a godsend. Though a bit dubious, I would consider myself an intermediate writer of poetry. My first love is prose, so if you get a feel of something other than verse in my poetry that is why. I use poems to assist me when I have writer’s block. This strategy, however, seems to be morphing into something more serious. At least I think so.

Thanks for reading.

Poem by: @nicholas83

Date: 5/6/18

Join the Steemit school at: https://discord.gg/hyfYQ9P