His hands lie resting avoidant, anxious like trapped dust on top of the shelf waiting to be swept
His eyes turned away looking at the plaster wall as if the wall was his only companion in the room
His smile is hidden from its owner scared of the punishment it may face
His heart is overcomed by all the talking in brain, all the **** thinking like a disease  
His knees bends like a single corner of a shy square
His whistles are often quiet but when frustrated they are balloons getting furiously poked by a needle
His footprints are subtle small occupants of my mind, and he is my everything
Yet if he would be in my heart, his square shyness would not fit in my round heart

Stroller parks
Evil eyes
Parents' barks
Children cries
Crowded places
Gluttonous bites
Staring faces
Long-line rides
Not coming back
Till I know
It won't be packed
Like a sold out show.

Since when was being called a child an insult?
Is a child so dumb and unknowing?
Is a child not a sponge absorbing knowledge and experience?

If I'm called childish, it seems more a compliment than an insult.

i  am a being of chaos only tamed
by the sound of euphony
through these head phones, i am one.
Complete, numb, distracted.

Doesn’t feel wrong to indulge in my happiness,
being in a crowd of strangers coming together
to see one big show.
Or indulging in CD’s
and staying up late fighting off killer stress
looking for more music to scavenge.

Empty,
hallow,
and futile feelings,
the piles of ****
i can no longer carry
becomes flushed.

i would rather listen to pointless rambles of a song
than tune in.

An escape, a friend, apartofme.