Every man for himself,
in this mutilated world
we don't speak anymore,
dressed to impress some all-too-familiar-machine
trying to beat the screen
while remaining in touch with our identity.
52 faces laid bare on the lawn of your parents house
obscure in expression
uncomfortable fractures, fiction facets
a Greek man sharing dried figs and za'taar pita
with his reoccurring out-of-place feeling
that I know all too well.
Craving sugar and Gin and attention
in a place that will not give it to me.
This place I will not mention.
The spine of an unread library book, the sick feeling from alcohol,
his laughter echoing down the street,
your neighbour, your cat,
your friend Brittney.
they all think the same as you, but do not speak.
For they are afraid of where trouble could reach.
Turn off your phone just to fall asleep.
Wake-up-call is that you don't need me
to force you into something you know,
as tables turn over and parachutes close
out the back of no-man's-land.
To the kids having fun, these kids don't know yet.
What their future holds - better to keep them silent.
We don't want to expose the fuck-up
Red pen writes these words of a cold-sober-soul
on a late Saturday afternoon.
This is all I wish to say.
No more.
YOU ARE READING
Everyone is a Visitor Here
PoetryWhat am I seeing that you are not? Or are we seeing much of the same? Everyone is a visitor here right? A collection of free form poetry and prose of observations from the world around me.
