Narratives

You not hearing it
doesn’t mean a soundtrack
isn’t playing
in the background as I
enter this bus

You don’t know

And so what if I
only got on because I
overslept and
didn’t have time for
my usual
walk to work

You don’t know about me

You don’t know the things I can do
in my head as I
sip this coffee

How could you?

You don’t even hear the songs that are playing

***

This poem was originally published on Medium.

Photo by Timon Studler on Unsplash

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You and me and layers of debris

Glorious youths
stolen after the fact
mummified cultural dead ends
drained of meaning
and
mined for nostalgia.

Anthropologists study
our High School yearbooks
scratching their heads.

All those snowboards
and Playstation 2s
must have been used
by someone.

Naked Still before the World I Stand

Call me naive.
Call me a hopeless dreamer.
Call me a stubborn product
of a childhood in the nineties,

flimsy and irrelevant
to the world as is.

We were born into the world
as naked as our emperors,
standing on the shoulders
of giant fairies
looking far
towards a future
that would never come.

Forgive us
for we share not
your cynicism,
at least not in our hearts,

and we still believe
in the
naked and complicated
beauty of a snowflake
rather than the
simple and comfortable
sizeable power
of a snowball.

Birds and shit, man. Damn.

There was a time
when his heart would not
stop singing

so he ripped it
from his chest
and stuck it in a cage
that he hung from
the ceiling.

Now
that cage is
a rusty old eyesore
and the song itself
at best a sporadic
joyful annoyance

but no amount of
blankets
can stop it from
chirping

day or night
like a blind owl

and he doesn’t
have the heart
to kill it.