I see the boy I used to be
not in a dream but on the street.
He walks alone without a beat
or rhythm in his feet.
He kicks a stone. His mobile phone
is glued to his cheek.

He seems the very model of
a troubled teenage tearaway.
Nothings lead to nothings, lead
to nothing honest he can say.

He knows what others think he is
and he’s terrified.
He thinks enough to know that he was
born lost,
walking,
terrified and lost.

He doesn’t toil his wits,
unwind a coil of ignorance
or dabble in some dissonance.
He speaks with recycled bits
of other people’s words,
quoting celebrities
who only sing in major keys
and comfort him like family
and apathy.

He cannot help but know their faces,
like buoyant cracked mirrors
adrift the surface of
a sea inside.
He often fishes for fantasies
but the water is still
and he’s terrified.