Sometimes I hate the city,
With grey concrete building and black tar road,
Countless faces I will never know,
Only the synthesized voice accompanying the road home.
Lying down in the field when I was young,
The wind hugs me welcome,
Sounds of water gossips about the intruder,
Grasses bend down to carry me,
As i fall asleep listening to birds chatter.
Now all I have is a sweaty steel chair,
nonsensical noise from strangers,
and a mechanical mouth that keeps
blowing cold stale air on my face.