This is dedicated to:
The walls, who watched over me.
The screens, that washed my dirty face.
The darkness, which soothed my leaking and inflamed eyes.
The sadness, that sanitized the wounds within.
For your contributions, they will never be forgotten.

“The Lower Nu-Manhattan Memory Bank is a proud subsidiary of Cortex. Cortex: We don’t just preserve your memories, we cherish them!” The slogan boomed out across the street as the building’s massive screen illuminated all of the passers-by walking past. Rain cascaded down between the neon lights of the city square, scattering the neon light from the billboard in a haze all around the denizens of the city.

Poetry and Rhymes
Singing Songs and Written Words
How beautiful they are
But that is just a sweet lie

A teacup and saucer shatter, followed by the apology of a scullery maid and the berating’s of her mistress. The flowing fragrant contents of the now dashed china cup scattered across the polished tile floor. The still steaming liquid pooling at the feet of a beautiful, teary eyed girl who I now found rushing past me and into the hall.

Last week after class
I chose to loiter in Downtown till dusk,
lazily cruising circles on top of my skateboard.
I chose to avoid the upcoming campus crowds
of students cramming for their semester finals
and watched hordes of suited polyester
force themselves into full-capacity C-Trains.

In the darkness of my bedroom at four in the morning, I spoke softy to god. Whispering the pain that plotted my consciousness.
Choked breaths, through the moments that replayed in my minds eye.
Salted tears snaked down my face into the corners of my mouth.

He heard the joke,
But missed the subtle tone.
With no understanding of sarcasm.
Unable to empathize with an insecurity being struck.
He heard, but didn’t understand.