forgotten plans
fade to non existence

we got the night bus back together
but we left on our own
and you never gave me a second glance

through the mud I trek
the long walk back
to my single bed

Americana is not Greyhound.

People come and go like life,
Attached to the waiting random.

The road feels longer,
Relief of excretion and sanitation,
Home spreads everywhere.

Sitting strangers are stories,
Riding by unknown sceneries,
Thinking about their hometown,
Wondering if they will reach their destination on time.

Earphone music connects memories to a person so vividly,
It feels like a new chapter in my life,
Bookmark the important ones with parts of me,
It feels like I’m departing,
From something small to somewhere big.

It’s
already
an adventure
once     the      first
step          is         made
with                               you.

She walks in the rain, annoyed
As the hair she combed so perfectly
Dances freely with the wind,
A tangled mess; wild and unruly

She zips her jacket till her chin
As she continues on her path
It's another feeble attempt to
Shield herself from the clouds wrath

She walks, sidestepping puddles
Her brand new boots caked with muck
She reaches the bus stop, cursing
The dreary weather in which she's stuck

She waits for the bus, impatient
As raindrops fall upon her face
Oh, how she hates the icy breeze
That knocks her hood out of its place!

She waits; half drenched, half frozen
As thunder roars from the skies
As though haughtily boasting about
All the umbrellas that it's destroyed

Finally, the bus arrives;
Her saviour, her salvation!!!
Now she braces herself for
The long long ride to her destination.

This Black African nun in cherished photo
she calls our right to vote
Her kindness in her laughing squinting eyes,
and her kind bow smile to match
The voice of liberty written and etched upon
her kind and brilliant face; all imprinted for years
to come

All hail her bus with her sisters all in one;
a beautiful chariot on busy wheels that run
across our nation to give a helping hand
And lift our thirsty spirits on a dry and desolute land

They hold that lamp of liberty on kind hands
and gentle voice, but strong in truth be known,
to hold our basic right, to close those drapes and
snap a switch, to a voice of our own

They cross our land in valor in gentleness and kind
these nuns of liberty and justice in an unjust time

Their hearts are made from goodness; their strength
so often done, in a land so heavily pillaged, they will
never never succumb. They see a new sun rising over
the distant hill
They know their work of justice never to be still...

The younger kid
Looks at the older girl
And wonders
Why she doesn't drive yet

Why she's still riding the
School bus,

He wonders
Why her ears are plugged
So deep,
Throbbing with sounds
He can almost hear.

He wonders
Why she looks so sullen.
So somber.

At his younger age,
There's not as much
To be sad about yet.
But he doesn't know.
And she's not about to tell him.

They're separated by years
And he can't quite understand her
But she understands
Him,
wondering.
Because she used to do it too.

Jeg samler på steder
engang havde jeg massere af steder
men nu har jeg kun mit lille hus
hvor alt er trygt, trygt, trygt,
i min seng kan min hjerne sove
det intense tryk kan trygt forsvinde
men selv der i MIN seng kan jeg føle mig alene

You're in the tap of my foot
As I wait for the bus
In every song we used to sing.
Though it would be good
To forget about us
I remember every little thing.