I stand and wait for the 115
Or 15 bus to arrive
It's cold, I blow an icy vapour with every breath

A sea of umbrellas
Hoodies
Raincoats
Dreary faces

Longing for freer times
since fleeting, since forgotten, since lost
Pudless stepped in without hesitation
Or avoided with passive agression

Like their lives
Like ours

The water adresses what we can (could)
not

What happens when you try to break the backs
Of backs that are already familiar with and have adapted to the pain of being trampled on?
What happens when those backs have adapted to the pain of breaking and aching and
Making themselves as hard as stone and as flexible as water?
What happens to us?

Our backs become bridges.
Sometimes, they become gates, or tethers.
They leak.
They reek.
They break.
They mend.
They rust,
Never do they break.

You don't deserve to suffer
You can start over
Start over start over start over
Begin again
Leave
You don't belong here/ need to stay
Where do I belong then?
Not at home, not here, not anywhere?

The illusion of abundance
A barmecidal way of life
Having just enough guts and gall
That you don’t have to think twice
Transparency to view the hype
My delusion is my vice
Justice from decisions made
For rich and poor alike
Not enough to make a change
But enough to entice
And after all is said and done
I only ask you name your price

I am not tethered
Not yet
Not ever
I exist exclusively outside your gaze
I belong to myself now
You will not keep me here,
In fear and in folly
And I, I will not stay
Though I am weary of what awaits me
No!
Let me rise, now
The strength of my atonement and courage
Will protect me
As I wonder into a page without your expectations of failure.
Yes!
I choose to be free.

Is a poet still a poet
If they do not write?

A journal gathering dust,
But a yearning to write.
Am I still a poet
Without my inner light?