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Jessica Jan 24
This cosmic canister carries the world’s disarray-
Our destinations different, our feelings the same.
Though we have regular meetings we remain strangers;
Heads down, uncomfortable.
A pattern forms in our lives which none exits, our sacred routine which if changed is wrong.
Empathetic eyes glazed with weariness.
At each departure, a new inhalation of caffeine and smoke,
A new wave of bodies,
A new mass.
We all contribute to the mass, but the mass never goes,
Only waxes and wanes with the seasons.
We travel as one, carried by destinations, riddled with enigmas.
The hour reaches 6:00 and the mass bulges; the kettle is at its boiling point.
We move as agitated atoms riling against one another.
The world’s day draws to a close, as our microenvironment wakes.

A man exhales stale disappointment- no promotion due.
The coarse skin of his fingers caresses
The constant happiness in his life;
Helping him live, hastening his death.
Unable to inhale satisfaction, his suit clad leg
Writhes underneath the table,
Distracting him, but alerting others of the craving.
Although his tie is straight and his briefcase orderly,
A lose thread and weary eyes give him away-
He’s tired; tired of life, tired of the necessary endless routine
Which holds him and his livelihood captive.
It weakens and sustains him simultaneously.
His secrets define him.

A girl sighs, her cheeks wet,
Tears heavy with hurt.
A bruise has settled itself on her forearm;
A warning for the next time she comes home late.
Her skin has become a canvas and everyday more paint is added.
Her permanent ink hides the painful marks
Yet the latter seems to leave the most lasting impression.
Her face is scarcely discernible;
Metal studs line the place where her smile should be-
They are so many that her humanity becomes robotic.
Her secrets define her.

The tube we sit in holds heavy hearts, new smiles,
Old friends.
The mass becomes one as each day our routine returns,
We get to know our fellow travellers
Without really getting to know them at all.
Their influence on our existence seems insignificant,
Yet they contribute to the steadfast mass that so grips our little lives,
Whilst we hold on to sanity by a single thread.
Our secrets define us.
Cat Lynn Jan 17

•☆•Gently •☆•

•☆• Observing •☆•



Having a hard time finding that right now...
Pathetic right?
Derrek Faraday Nov 2018
In the mind of monotony
The camel-backed shoulder
The dust-swept autonomy
Rolls like a boulder
My dated vernacular
Loses its weight
The senile spectacular
Closes the gate
And it lingers no longer

Than transit’s bellow
Which pounds in my chest
The highway fellows
Exit my nest
A camera captures
Two, four faceless drivers
They wait for the rapture
While cleaning their tires
I am left no stronger

Than a wicked word
Which sharpens my ear
I gather the herd
To share in my mirror
No more cigarettes?
No time to hide
My paper parapet?
Where I keep my pride
I wade and squander
Seanathon Nov 2018
The struggles and vices of another.
Are no less genuine to them, than you are to your own.

For we all have scars, and struggles, and little selfish lies.

The kind of thoughts that say that THIS or THAT or HE or SHE...will satisfy.

When they will not. And you know it.
Trick is finding someone you can respect.
Nathalie Nov 2018
I knew of you before we met

I would visit you

During my nighttime wanders

Observing you from the cosmoses of

My active mind

At rest…

I felt your energetic touch

As it drew me closer

The dominance of your circuitry

Knitting our fields in webs

Of pulsing adoration

Signs of ardor

Remain present

When your soul companion

Is near…the communication

Is never amiss

The understanding

Between these two travelers

Are through surfs

Of invisible connections

Detectably palpable

Graff1980 Oct 2018
It’s all a lie. I work the words, speaking spastically in humorous verbs, and **** jokes. Strangers smile, and tender sweet laughter, which I love. So, I keep pushing the boundaries, working weird thoughts. They laugh more, which is what I work for.

Later when they are not looking, I look at them. I try to keep it less creepy than the other stalker type men, but I am studying them; Learning the limits of my understanding, sussing out the rhythms in which they speak and think. I try to devour their truths but hope they don’t see me struggling to see them.

I observe the hallway world. There is a man a foot shorter than me with a very wide waist, slightly longer white hair that gently curls at each end with small bald spot in the back, and the face of a cherub. Hands in his pocket he barely looks up but gives me a slight grin when I acknowledge him. Then his eyes return to the ground three steps ahead. He speaks softly and walks slowly. I know he is hiding something deep, but I do not try to see too far behind the surface, to the grander mind because people don’t appreciate that kind of trespassing. I wonder if his shyness is a product of years of rejection, abuse, or merely a reflection of a truly introverted disposition.

I am in a hurry, dropping off books at an out of town library, and picking up some poetry to devour later. She must be new, because she moves slowly. Then attempts to engage me in social pleasantries. I am trying not to pay any attention, and she is not super desperate, but she wants to speak and be heard. So, I really look at her.
Lengthy strands of brown thinning hair fall down her long skinny face, slightly obscuring a small growth under the left side of her cheek. Thin rim glasses look at me, as she talks about what she likes to read. Then shifts the discussion to the walking dead. She is passionate and despite my previous urge to escape, I am now sincerely engaged.
The gym is loud with ****** music and clinking equipment. She is stunning; Long wavy hair released after a hard workout. She is tanned, and thin but muscular, with a soft and generous voice. I ask her about her boys, and old man. She always appreciates that. We keep the chit chat short, so we can workout and get on with the day.

I stare back at a familiar but silent face, there is a building rage ready erupt, something deep and dark that is waiting to self-destruct. I do not like this person much. Dark hazel eyes pressure me, to seek something deep, short dark brown hair recedes but at a barely perceptibly rate. Teeth seem to be shrinking extremely slowly, except for the lost and already rotting ones. His body is losing fat. He is improving, but **** that. He should work harder.
I have little patience and compassion for this dumb doppelganger, but I still observe seeking something deeper, the darker unheard truths. I stare at him and snarl.

      “I like them much more then you.”
youphoria Sep 2018
sometimes when i am in public
i get spacey
and observe everyone
and their actions

these people around me
i'm not like them
or maybe they're not like me

they seem so careless and
i seem so uptight

then i just try to relax
my shoulders
because they are all the way up to
my ears

letting this anxiety get the best of me is one of my biggest fears
Eno Sep 2018
If you look closely you’ll see
A pattern
Between those rocks
Two lines
One greener than grass
The other a shade of grey
And if you stay with it
There’s a hollow space underneath
Big enough to fit a metre or two
Of rope ravelled
There’s actually more pattern
The colours more shaded
And movement
The original stripes gleam
Away from the light above
It’s a body
A thick hide
Of resilience
And distress
Seeking solace in what’s left
Behind the fingerprints
In a glass cage
Of a zoo
Kewayne Wadley Jul 2018
A woman sits on the train.
Watching, waiting for something to happen.
She rushes pass building after building lost in the sights.
The world flying by her window seat.
One track at a time.
Fixed between one common place to another.
She turns her head.
A man reads the paper.
Headline covered by the fold.
Presidential debate.
His hold is tight, side eyeing the woman beside him.
Her round face.
Randomly clicking on her phone.
Social media sites.
Candy crush.
He views in full.
The air is cool.
Cool enough to put you to sleep.
She wonders if anyone notices her.
She yawns,
lips printed on the reflection of buildings.
She quickly looks away.
The train passes.
Overhead she sees a plane.
Never has she flown.
To see the sights above.
Would the experience be the same.
Travel size smile.
Hand bag at rest.
The train rushing faster and faster.
The buildings now out of sight.
The plane races on.
She turns her head.
Now she's asleep
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