This city. This scene.
People say it is dying,
people say that it is boring.
They think it is dark and dreary,
depressing and weary.
They don’t see what we see.
The light flowing through
the cracks in the paved streets.
The don’t hear the click of the drumsticks,
counting... One... Two... Three... Four...
They don’t hear the first thud, like a heartbeat.
Followed by a thousand more.
They don’t feel the striking chords
as they ring through your chest,
the bassline moving your feet in protest.
They don’t hear the heartbeat of the city,
that lives in every street.
They just see an excuse
to pull down the bricks,
take their ball away
before you get a kick,
put razor blades in your sweets.
They throw stones,
because they don’t see
that they live in a glass home.
They don’t see the rainbows that flow over head,
just the cross thoughts living in dread.
In fear that happiness could tread their streets
and they will miss it.
They say this place is dying a death.
That CPR is useless, that it would be
a waste of energy and breath.
But I say we are thriving
trying to live the dream.
I see unity, a community. Building,
rather that disrupting. Uplifting,
rather than crushing.
By not building walls of disillusion.
When adversity pulls up a chair,
drunkenly swearing
that we are going nowhere,
I look around at the hundreds,
no, thousands that are all rolling their eyes.
The ones that know that it will all explode
when our hearts beat in time.
For this place is full of talent,
so many artists, performers,
and an audience that wants more.
We are here,
and as you sit in your pit moaning,
we will be here letting out a roar.
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