Maybe a Desert
New York gives rise to sinful dreams,
California is beautiful in the morning
Where am I?
To whom belongs the writer's soul?
Who am I?
Poet of the sea and the coast
Or poet of urban corners?
Who am I when I'm torn apart with questions?
What do I want?
Or write poetry?
Perhaps both. Exactly that.
New York is a spitting image of reality,
California a scene in the eye of a director.
Where to place my desires?
What do I need?
Maybe a desert.