I. (The Bubble).

Now, I don't like it.
The coming, the going
on four wheels
to the building
where we all drift,
told what is right
and how to write,
the same stories
in disparate voices,
A B C fail.
What is obscured behind the names,
cherubic female faces,
men from various places?
Who are you again?
We talk
but know little
about each other.
It's about you,
how to waft into
the social triangle.
We are transparent bubbles
that float and collide
and pop,
an insignificant extinction.
I do not like it.

II. (The People 'Just Like Me').

It fell into your lap
like warm spilt tea.
You took it,
the first,
of course,
but me?
Not a thing,
not a person I mean
on the other side
of the decrepit fence.
Forget, forget they say,
pick someone from that place,
figure them out
like a thousand-piece jigsaw.
But they are no good,
diluted colours
visible but not stand-out.
Where are the similar shades
of green
to paint themselves to me?
There could only be one
but forgive me,
I cannot see
for the steam in my eyes.

III. (The Resolutions).

These are the silent days
between pigs in blankets
and bangs in the sky.
Wet weather,
lights on.
The resolutions,
who keeps them?
Write better,
fair enough.
Be less inept,
but I am not anyway.
Cut down on complaining,
take each day
s t e a d y .
Breathe, move forwards,
only on occasion
delving into the sack
to pull out
unwelcome shards of the past
or vibrant memories
soon to vanish.
Are you sure you want
to delete this file?
Yes/No?