The Neon Blues of a Concrete Soul

 Poetry: Literary Liberation: The Neon Blues of a Concrete Soul by Ruben Camp White

I am the rhythm that the city tried to mute, but the vibration in my bones was set by a higher frequency. When the world leans in with its cynical whispers, questioning my stride or the crown I carry, I simply listen to the hum of the tracks beneath my feet a reminder that I am grounded in a history much deeper than their opinions.

I’ve learned that my worth isn’t a currency to be traded or a dream that can slip through a hole in a pocket. It is the steady fire I keep in a chipped mug, warmed by the sugar of a tomorrow I am building with my own hands. I don’t look for my reflection in the glass of skyscrapers that seek to diminish me; I find it in the asphalt that has supported kings and the stars that shine regardless of who notices. I am a man, not a shadow, and I dance to a jukebox melody that only the soul can hear. My identity is an uncurated anthem, and I am finally singing it in my own name.

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