Old.
I am too old for this.
A paper laid, a cup settled, a pen placed down.
It’s getting late.
The hand strikes.
Again, that feeling.
Loss.
Too lacklustre?
The machine chimes.
A kind smile, looking.
Again, that feeling.

hurt.


Young.
She’s too young for this.
Somewhere in the distance,
a crash, a scream; horrific.
Bleak but hoping.
Optimistic but humiliated.
A victim, emotions.
She has that feeling.
Lonely.
Past shamed.
Greedy in a different way.
A fake smile, directed.
Again, she had that feeling.

lucid.


Foolish.
As if a child.
Higher‒he takes himself.
Hides most.
A stray from the kindred.
Comparing and compelling.
Rotten and relinquished.
Hateful and hated.
He had that feeling.
Pain.
Someone new.
Upturned, over his head.
A frown, disappointing.
He should have that feeling.

lust.


Love, a planet‒
Far from our crippled hearts.
Boast, a rock‒
Jagged, crude, uncouth.
Fear, a shoe‒
Clothed to hide and fit.
Hate, a knife‒
Despair inkling, reaching for hands.
Indecisiveness, a mold‒
Grew out of spite and ignorance.

Our pictures
Scrawled upon thousands and thousands
of ripped jeans
of khaki shorts
of mini skirts
of cocktail dresses
of leggings and skin-tight jeans

Indecipherable
Feelings.
Words.
Phrases.
Letters.
“God, just get over it!”
Uttered separately. A few.

No.
It is within us.
Our heritage.
The line in which it follows.
It’s fated.