In the city, the streets gleam with neon.
You, a name in my mind, a flame that burns for no reason.
I wait for you somewhere, maybe today, maybe tomorrow,
In this story waiting for our next scene.

The barkeep wipes the counter, sighs slow,
Another night shift, another round to pour.
Same faces, same stories, same afterglow,
Drinking away the emptiness, hour by hour.
A fly buzzes, fat and indifferent,
Circling the chipped glass, a shared despair.
Neon bleeds a lonely redolent,
Painting shadows on weary faces there.
Laughter cracks, brittle and forced, a joke’s sting,
The bartender slams a shot, eyes cold and flat.
Piano groans a bluesy, discordant thing,
A symphony of regrets where dreams went splat.
Each gulp a surrender, a bitter defeat,
Drowning the ghosts that never truly die.
Barstool lament, a bittersweet retreat,
Where the living dead drink until they cry.

Morning cigarette burns like yesterday’s mistakes.
Coffee, black as my mood, assaults the emptiness.
The city outside throbs with a headache’s rhythm.

Another day, another dollar, they said.
Feels more like another day, another inch of dust.

Words spill like cheap ganja, raw and honest.
Bruised truths about love and its scars.
The beauty in the broken, the fight in the fallen.

Maybe there’s a flicker of hope in the pix.
A shared laugh between strangers in the gutter.
A moment of connection in the neon blur.

The medicine store fluorescents hum a tired tune,
casting the street in shades of sickly green.
Another night, another joint, another cartoon
playing on the screen – a laugh track, obscene.
The cashier, a girl with eyes like chop-chopped china,
rings up my purchase, barely a glance my way.
Outside, the wind whispers secrets to the pusher,
secrets I already know, secrets that decay.
Back in my room, the roaches scatter like filings,
a symphony of clicks on the cracked tiles floor.
The amber nugget burns a familiar fire, fillings
the uselessness with a bittersweet roar.
No dreams tonight, just the hum of the city’s thrum,
sirens wailing a lullaby off-key.
This concrete jungle’s my lullaby, glum,
a symphony of despair, just for me.

Another sunrise, another cheap beer chaser, staving off the rust.
The road stretches on, an endless gray strip, promises neon-lit and faded.