“streetlight uprising”
broken glass morning,
sirens chewing the edges of the block,
someone yelling run though no one moves,
a kid kicking a dented can like it owes him a future.
I catch a phrase on a peeling flyer:
“don’t wait for the sky to open itself”
and it hits like a shove between the ribs.
traffic lights blink their warnings,
a bus exhales smoke like a tired prophet,
and every passerby looks wired to burst—
not from fear, but from the pressure of wanting more
than this cracked‑pavement destiny.
a girl with chipped nail polish
shouts into the wind:
“if they won’t listen, make them feel it”
and the street seems to vibrate with her.
someone slams a door,
someone else laughs too loud,
and suddenly the whole block feels like
it’s about to leap out of its own skin—
a raw, rising surge,
a dare,
a spark catching on the edge of the hour.
and in that moment,
every heartbeat around me
sounds like a rallying cry
trying to break free of the throat.
.