I read so much of some peoples work
I go to their profile and just scroll down
Reading up from wherever I land
I'm interested, intrigued, indefinitely
I can always find something to consume my mind
For minutes
For hours
For days at a time
Filling my thoughts with questions and worries, of "what ifs"
With contemplation, I read every word, with some, I memorize every line
If asked I'm sure I could recite ones poem or two
I'm never sure what to do when ones work leaves me reeling, wondering
wondering about them
wondering about who they are and what inspires them
About what they know, of what they might have been through
maybe that's a little intrusive?
But knowing Ill most likely never know the answers
I've become okay with just wondering, pondering, the possible "what ifs" and "how's"
It's become a hobby, more of a habit, really, when happening upon something amazing
I read it again and again
until its stuck in my head
like a song with a catchy tune stuck on repeat
I don't mind
but it does make me think

He sits all alone
Watching people walk by
Into the buildings that came from his mind
No one knows
And they wouldn't understand
Why he sits all alone now by the trash cans
He'll work all day for no pay at all
With no place to go home to
And no place to shower
He'll walk the rail rode tracks at the midnight hour
When the stars start to dim and there's a glimpse of mornings first light
He'll rest his aching feet and ponder his life
A routine now becoming one of comfort
He works all day
and wonders all night
Unable to silence his longing inside
This has become his life

I sit here with jealousy on my mind
and envy in my heart
I yearn to know
I read their words
I wonder about their thoughts
curiosity clings on my tongue
questions unasked
and questions unanswered
Jealousy leaves a wave of guilt in the air
and breathing it makes me sick
I wonder if that's what really killed the cat

It still hangs above the kitchen table
   Torn down the center and patched with a single strip of of duct tape
His skin painted white
   His eyes blue and bloodshot
His lips glossed with the color of blood from a fresh wound
  
   *He sits
unable to speak
   unable to tell of all he's seen
unable to share his knowledge with the clueless
   unable to warn them

He silently hangs on the faded yellow wall
   torn and damaged
faded and discolored
  discolored with splatters of this
or sprays of that
  
*no one knows but him
and there he will always be
   on the wall
above the kitchen table
   silent and watching