This city (will be the death of me).

A brisk walk into oncoming traffic
A great way of quelling the panic
Of hopelessness; burdened by bills,
Browsing for sad thrills; alone, bored,
Ignored emails from abhorred editors;

(Better luck next time I guess?!)

Twenty nine years in this acrid belly,
Flailing, failing, nothing to show,
Except debts, regrets, a mind off-kilter,
Eyes strained through filtered grey veils 
Of opulence, greed and brash inequality,

For anything remotely satisfactory:

This city will be the death of me.