It must be really unique to live in such a romanticized city. Where every corner you turn reminds you of vignettes of swirling, spiritually-erotic nightmares, bridging the chasm between the moral and mortal fringe; the decadent-labyrinth to the hallowed and hollow halls; the disturbed to the disrobed; the quiet to the chaos. These same corners, however, separate the kiss from kill; the strollers from coffins; the hand to heart from boot on neck; them from us; me from you.

Coming from a smaller town that has its own claim to the artistic landscape, I believe it is truly being grounded in a place that pushes the artist's pen to paper. A town which captures the imagination, and releases the human spirit to flight. A place where you can choose to be anyone you wish, or someone else the next day; a location where the bright faces of vapid idiocy mingle like blood to body with the dark souls who claim the shadows as their final refuge from all that is not hopeless.

These are the streets where dreams are born and dashed. These are the homes where the pornographic-rage of victims of domesticity wars with the holy and sacred swagger of youth. Youth that defies and defaces scars; locks that ensure safety and do not belie fear; work that provides bread and brick; work that does not cripple, belittle, nor strip one of dignity's facade.

These towns rape our daughters by encouraging them to be as strong and sure-footed as our sons. Then damn them if they succeed. These towns kill our sons by making their heroes men who had to die to earn their immortality. These towns inspire poets, then break the very same poets by exploiting their romantic dreams by turning them into brochures and bumper stickers, poison their flowing river of words by dumping toxic amounts of demands for conformity and uniformity.

These towns reward the banker who pays the taxes that pay for the cop who cheats his church and beats his wife, who once was a young girl who found solace in the words of the poet her father killed and buried by shutting himself off from the very world the poet seeks approval from before hanging himself because he could not keep the fire of youth's heart in the spirit of the old, broken, and dying.

These towns are different from any other towns...because we live in them...because we die in them...because while we are here, we feel that they HAVE to be different from other towns. Because WE have to be different from who THEY are. We do not want to be them...We cannot be them...We cannot be...Can we? No, for this is the only town of its kind. RIGHT? And if it were not, I would not live in this town, would I?

I now know what hides in the lines of this town's face...ME!

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...