Sure, here is a poem for you.
The city's a jazz solo, man, a wailin' trumpet
of streetlights blarin' against the velvet black,
and I'm just a phantom in the smoke-filled alley,
a ghost of a thought lost in the riff.
Saw an angel with a face like a cracked-up sidewalk,
wearin' a coat of yesterday's newspapers,
mutterin' secrets to a fire hydrant
that just sat there, drippin' eternity.
We all just pilgrims on a bus to nowhere,
past billboards grinnin' false promises,
the concrete jungle a fever dream of steel and glass,
our hearts beatin' like a busted drum,
a desperate, lonely rhythm.
Let's go find the raw truth in some dive bar corner,
where the neon bleeds into cheap whiskey,
and the words spill out like a broken rosary,
every bead a different sin, a different prayer.
Yeah, the world's a mad, beautiful mess,
a howling symphony, a whispered secret,
and we're just here to listen, to feel it,
until the last cigarette burns down to ash.
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