By RACHELL CHON
I recollect the time we ventured on the streets,
Into a city that seemed tough and unfeeling;
The gray buildings towered over the stained sidewalks,
Covered in a layer of dust and impurities.
Maybe that’s why I travelled with my hands on my sides.
The people walked like they were surrounded by a glass case,
Closed to everyone but themselves.
They try to look as hard as stone,
Faking a look of intimidation to seem untouchable;
They won’t let anyone interrupt their stride,
And refuse to let their eyes fall anywhere but forward.
Maybe that’s why I put up a glass case up of my own.
The sounds you hear are arbitrary and rash.
The honks from the herd of metal cars echo across the stained sidewalks
And ring into the ears that have grown immune to its yelling;
The distressing ignition of machines blow their burdensome tone into the wind;
They drag their heavy wheels with more man-made materials,
To the unending mass of man-made buildings.
Maybe that’s why I can’t stand breathing in the smoke from the tainted air.