Crying on the city bus is most definitely anything but unobtrusive. Fixing flashing yellow lights to my forehead like they do amongst sketchy cross-walks; all eyes: piercing guns.
Infectious words grow into my ears the same as a poorly cleansed earring, and I'm playing them back until I feel carsick.
Switch from spoken word to shuffle-play a cacophony of double-kick and guttural growls to beckon the suffusion of apathy instead of obsolete memories.
To bury the burden of living alone in a world full of people, and I try to practice sonder, but it's difficulty grows with the idiocracy; a spectator of this cosmic chess game.....
But I shouldn't give myself that much credit.
A masquerade of dramatic eye-makeup and fishnets under three-inch heels to an old and plain black t-shirt overtop goosebump-paved legs, shaking in some cold backyard, listening to the thundering of trains reverberate off the sky.
Maybe I do it all for the purpose of being remembered by someone, anyone, to be anything but unobtrusive.....
But I've learned the best way to bum a cigarette is to break down on a city bus.
YOU ARE READING
Logolepsy
ПоэзияLogolepsy A fascination or obsession with words. ~a compilation of poetry~
