Categories > Original > Poetry
Grey.
When you're alone, this city fucking sucks.
You walk into the mall, and you're eaten away at the outrageous consumerism within minutes. The flashy names, the designer brand bullshit. As if a name makes a product any more inviting, and beautiful. It doesn't.
They slather everything in diamonds, they live by the rule that if it glitters, it's gold. If that rule was true, my eyes were once gold, but they've faded into plain rock now.
Sometimes, I like to find a dark corner in this suntanned centre, and just watch people. I see so many different types of people - I see gay couples holding pink-clad children, arguing about what brand-name black hole to visit next. I see Heidi Montag prostitues, clinging desperately to whatever rich businessman. I see bored teenagers, I see unhappy women. The prostitues and the women interest me the most.
Once, I just counted how many body-sellers I saw. I counted 20. 20. Twenty women whose lives revolved around moaning a stranger's name, telling them how amazing they were, then making off with their money, often to go buy drugs and spend hours in narcotic-induced nightmares. I wonder how people can find them attractive - painted-on smirks, plasticine skin. Their faces are horrifyingly fake - they are carnival masks, hiding the pain underneath.
With silicone breasts and equally false words, the hookers are by far my favorite to study.
The sad women, though, my heart goes out to them sometimes, wrapped in a warm blanket of 'I'm Sorry'. It hurts to watch this kind - the kind that know their significant other is texting someone that they love more than the woman across the table. No words are spoken, just heartbroken glances. Those glances scream 'if you love her, why are you with me?'
Walking the skylight-littered corridors of the mall, I look at the names glowering down at me - Gucci, Dior, Fendi, Prada. What do they mean? They're nothing, just strings of meaningless letters designed to make us feel shitty about our corner-store lives. I want to punch out every self-righteous light.
This city sucks when you're alone. When you're with company, though, it's such a different experience.
We share a cigarette, the cobweb smoke drifting out and into the already-polluted atmosphere. His hand is entwined with mine, His hands so much bigger than mine. They're calloused and rough, yet warm and soft and they offer me the comfort I need. He's so much taller than me, it looks almost comical as we stride carelessly through the bright lights.
We don't fit in here - He's the boy that all the girls would love to dance with. I'm the girl that's had far too many chances. Yet it's Him that smirks at my cynical remarks, and I'm the one who curls into His side as we fall asleep to the tune of gory horror movies.
With Him around, my hatred for everything about the sun-kissed emporium fades till its fuzzy round the edges.
Everything looks so much prettier in the inky black of night time, when His arm is sling round my waist and he's bending down to press a soft kiss to my cheek, and he's muttering about something or other. It's relaxing.
This city and I have a love-hate relationship. I love when we race through the city, windows down and music blaring. I hate it when I'm alone, cold and helpless, hating every inch of the platinum-laced wasteland.
This city sucks when you're alone, it sucks a little less when you're with someone you love.
This city sucks majority of the time.
This was written driving back from Dubai - and everything in it is true. 'He' is a real person, and yeah, whatevs. Rate and review? I really, really like this.
29/6/13: My friend, Laura, sent this to Endigo of Overworld! She also showed it to her teacher, who's entering it into a poetry contest. That got me thinking, should I enter this into a poetry contest?
When you're alone, this city fucking sucks.
You walk into the mall, and you're eaten away at the outrageous consumerism within minutes. The flashy names, the designer brand bullshit. As if a name makes a product any more inviting, and beautiful. It doesn't.
They slather everything in diamonds, they live by the rule that if it glitters, it's gold. If that rule was true, my eyes were once gold, but they've faded into plain rock now.
Sometimes, I like to find a dark corner in this suntanned centre, and just watch people. I see so many different types of people - I see gay couples holding pink-clad children, arguing about what brand-name black hole to visit next. I see Heidi Montag prostitues, clinging desperately to whatever rich businessman. I see bored teenagers, I see unhappy women. The prostitues and the women interest me the most.
Once, I just counted how many body-sellers I saw. I counted 20. 20. Twenty women whose lives revolved around moaning a stranger's name, telling them how amazing they were, then making off with their money, often to go buy drugs and spend hours in narcotic-induced nightmares. I wonder how people can find them attractive - painted-on smirks, plasticine skin. Their faces are horrifyingly fake - they are carnival masks, hiding the pain underneath.
With silicone breasts and equally false words, the hookers are by far my favorite to study.
The sad women, though, my heart goes out to them sometimes, wrapped in a warm blanket of 'I'm Sorry'. It hurts to watch this kind - the kind that know their significant other is texting someone that they love more than the woman across the table. No words are spoken, just heartbroken glances. Those glances scream 'if you love her, why are you with me?'
Walking the skylight-littered corridors of the mall, I look at the names glowering down at me - Gucci, Dior, Fendi, Prada. What do they mean? They're nothing, just strings of meaningless letters designed to make us feel shitty about our corner-store lives. I want to punch out every self-righteous light.
This city sucks when you're alone. When you're with company, though, it's such a different experience.
We share a cigarette, the cobweb smoke drifting out and into the already-polluted atmosphere. His hand is entwined with mine, His hands so much bigger than mine. They're calloused and rough, yet warm and soft and they offer me the comfort I need. He's so much taller than me, it looks almost comical as we stride carelessly through the bright lights.
We don't fit in here - He's the boy that all the girls would love to dance with. I'm the girl that's had far too many chances. Yet it's Him that smirks at my cynical remarks, and I'm the one who curls into His side as we fall asleep to the tune of gory horror movies.
With Him around, my hatred for everything about the sun-kissed emporium fades till its fuzzy round the edges.
Everything looks so much prettier in the inky black of night time, when His arm is sling round my waist and he's bending down to press a soft kiss to my cheek, and he's muttering about something or other. It's relaxing.
This city and I have a love-hate relationship. I love when we race through the city, windows down and music blaring. I hate it when I'm alone, cold and helpless, hating every inch of the platinum-laced wasteland.
This city sucks when you're alone, it sucks a little less when you're with someone you love.
This city sucks majority of the time.
This was written driving back from Dubai - and everything in it is true. 'He' is a real person, and yeah, whatevs. Rate and review? I really, really like this.
29/6/13: My friend, Laura, sent this to Endigo of Overworld! She also showed it to her teacher, who's entering it into a poetry contest. That got me thinking, should I enter this into a poetry contest?
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