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Screaming Streets

I found myself out there
cause I didn't want to be alone,
But I've got a full pack of smokes
and a 50 to secure my ride home.

Every night out,
its all the same.
The streets are
mad blotches of
black, pockmarked
with lifeless neon lights,
that flicker and twitch
without remorse.
The city is loud
and angry.
Women trot around in packs
wearing clothes that don't fit.
And lone men aggressively gab
into their cellular telephones
as they scale the sidewalks
along the skyscrapers.
Crowds cheer in even intervals
like the relentless traffic lights
and the same bass line
pulsates from every open door
along the main drag.

In every bar, tavern, lounge and pub,
there is one cigar smoker,
one floating woman,
with accessability you can smell,
a man wearing stripes,
and at least one argument
either silent or public.

Where men and women
come together,
stranger to stranger,
growing strange and stranger.
In a place so dank
with so many so troubled and self loathing,
inebriated and trying to escape
the inevitable plight of tomorrow.

How soon will we forget eachother?
Through what cracks must we crawl
to find another?
Why must we wait to forget the
pain and misery that brought us together?

The bar scene is such a hellacious hoax,
yet the greatest getaway we've ever known.
I have half a pack of smokes,
and a 20
to secure my ride home.