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Bus Poet Stop Jul 2017
months since last eye writ, your eyes most likely have never crossed mine.  still inhabit the buststops, now called bus shelters though they are not a "shelter in place" place, but a crossroads where the poor and rich, the youthful and the nearer-to-god-than-thee sit bearer nearer to each other when they reside in the equality of the moments that are globally know as
    "waiting for the bus"
or as
     "waiting for Godot".

eyes have seen buses in Rio and Delhi that carried livestock and more humans on the exterior than the interior.  

but mine eyes are in a slow fade away mode, dimming in a final
sun setting  so u are needed.  
give me your bus stories yearning to he free and I will give you
my imagined ones
for are not all bustop poems are imaginary?
Micaela Mar 14
i have let my life pass
me by without asking for a
the bus —
crowded with hardened men
crying, helpless children
laughing, graceful women
drifting — doesn’t
every light glimmers by—green—
illuminating my path to growth,
but my red hair
red blood
red heart
ignite the invite to

so i pull the cord
i interrupt the glares
i stumble out of the bustling confusion
i light onto solid ground

and i, beamingly,
ask myself if this is a
a start
Anna2000 Jan 22
You said it was my sigh
one of desolation, dissent,
that prompted you
that ubiquitously grey day,
to place your soul on that frigid, wooden bench
at a bus stop of all places,
right beside mine.

You made a comment
where was I going,
dressed so sharp and solemn,
with a distinct aura of resignation,
and startled from my reverie
the fog was blown from my mind,
by you, so cool and clear.

You tell me now
that you had no real reason
besides perhaps a distant curiosity,
to sit by me in the brisk twilight.
But as I boarded the bus,
not far behind,
I planted myself right next to you.

It was then you claim you knew,
that the rest was history.
Pyrrha Aug 2018
There is a bus stop I stand by everyday
Around me is every person who has ever hurt me or let me down
They stand here with me day by day
When the bus comes I'm the last to get on every single time
I stand awkwardly as all of the seats fill
As usual there are no empty seats left for me
I must pick the lesser of my evil's and choose one each day
The heaviness of the fear and panic sink into my core
As I place myself beside one of them once more

Today however as I stood with the others as I stand everyday
I felt their hollow eyes burn into my back
As the bus arrived I saw it load with all these people that detest me
With all the memories that they carry
All the memories that weigh like dumbbells on my being
And for once I just stand there
I do not get on
And I watch as the bus full of all these things I hate
Drives away as another appears

It stops before me and the door opens as the driver beckons me to get in
It isn't my bus, but I still drag my feet forward
As if pulled by an invisible force like a magnet I can't pull myself away
When I enter I see other passengers
Not all of the seats are full, in fact many are empty
But it still feels full, yet not stuffy
I feel welcome as I stand in the aisle of the bus
I'm dragged down by a brown eyed beauty
And I feel like for once I've found my place
Within this bus filling with the things I love, with people I trust
I got this Idea from a dream I had
Serena Nov 2017
Fishnet stockings,
Ripped jeans,
A Green, flowing button up,
Crystals adorning your collarbones,
Filling your pockets
Burning unpredicted futures into their denim,
Warming your wrists with the love offered by the souls who gave them to you.
For you,
Was never something shown.
For you,
Was never something shown.
Finally learned how good it feels to look like yourself
Put yourself on a shelf
A pedestal
Instead of 6 feet under your shoes.
It has taken
A shoal of revelations
To realize
That the world can only revolve around you
If you let it.
It has taken
18 years
Of contemplation
To realize
You can only lose faith on yourself
If you allow it.
To see
That If you grow
Your potential
To the size of a hydrogen filled giant.
Your emotions,
Like Venus,
And Saturn,
And Neptune,
And Mars,
Will Revolve around your protective flares,
By the gravity
Of your thoughts and choices.
Instead of them
Pulling you
Out of yourself
And forcing you into the simplicity
Of the very atoms
You are made of.
I thought of this as I recalled my always missing the bus as a kid, and how, now, I (almost) always make it on time. This is part I of II.
Isaac Godfrey Oct 2017
Stand by Bus-stop, Lights go by,

  Bus don't come, stay- wonder why,

    Man shows up, storm begins,

      Bus comes late; misfortune wins,

        Black and White, Grey in stain,

          Man will disappear again,

       Bus never arrives, sky goes pale,

     Sun goes right but to no avail.
   Stranger returns, so does rain

Late for Meeting, Late again.
A flexible Poem, depending on how you read it, it can span over the course of 1  to 5 days and have 1 - 3 anonymous non-described characters. It can also be read as a story or a metaphorical narrative, dependant on your preference.

— The End —