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.

para Isa

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.

para Isa

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

para Isa

Heart’s a cracked asphalt road, weeds pushing through the lines.
Your laughter, a dusty cassette, the tune barely there.
Plays in the background, static and skips, an unforgotten summer.

para Isa

Bus shelter reeks of stale cigarettes and despair.
Rain lashes down, a chorus of drumming on the metal roof.
Ad posters peel at the edges, dreams you can’t afford.

Haggard faces huddle, shadows in the dim light.
Each one a story scrawled on a crumpled paper cup.
Waiting for a bus that may never come, or a ride that takes them too far.