Dearest St. Pete.

[squirrellbomb]

My thoughts surf the crests,
Of the salty tears rolling down my breast.
Im not depressed, just recessed,
Into the deep bed of my memories.
St. Pete. repeating itself,
Over and over again in my head,
And not giving a proper goodbye,
Is the reason tears now well in my eyes.
And its not what couldve or mightve been said,
I just feel as though all the momentum built up there,
Might as well be behind a bullet,
Shooting every resident in the head.
A city so misread, about its own intentions,
And potential.
Like an undiscovered money tree,
With bursting branches,
Full.
A whole buncha youngin's,
dyin' for life,
A hog tied hostage,
Grabbing for a knife.
The chance of a proper goodbye,
Died with the proper hello,
Which should have been given six years ago.
And if i knew then,
What i now know,
I'd know about the same,
About the art of letting go.