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 Jun 2015 Tea
Traveler
The quest for identity
Is lost in a universe
Of reason gone amidst
 Jun 2015 Tea
Carolin
A boy with
sunshine in
his mouth.

A girl with
daisies under
her skin.

He kissed her
and gardens
bursted into
life from
within* ~
 Jun 2015 Tea
Damian Murphy
It happens on buses, in restaurants, or on trains,
On my work break, in waiting rooms, or on aeroplanes
It even happens on holidays and on nights out too
It drives me absolutely mental but what can I do?

I always get stuck with the one person, (I never seem to fail)
Who feels the need to tell their life story, (in all its gory detail)
Is it something about me, or is it just downright bad luck?
What makes people like these think I could give one f..k?

I try my best not to engage, but I do not like to be rude
Though I want to say Shut Up! I’m just not in the mood!
They start to talk, I disengage, it’s a real battle of wills
But they carry on regardless, have they no social skills?  

I try to make it obvious I’m not the type who gives a sh.t”,
that I am not someone who cares, even just a little bit
But they miss all the signals, that much is obvious
As they carry on regardless, completely oblivious!  
  
Now we all have our problems but we do not feel the need to share
So what makes these people think a complete stranger will care
Is offloading to strangers for them some kind of great panacea?
Or do these people just suffer from acute verbal diarrhoea?

As they prattle on I nod, make all the appropriate noises
If there was a competition for talkers these people would win prizes
While amazed by the fact these people never seem to draw breath
I fight an ever growing desire to simply beat them to death

Some things you don’t discuss with strangers, should it require explanation?
But nothing seems sacred, no such thing as “too much information”
These people tell me intimate details about themselves and their lives
Stuff you and I would hesitate to tell parents, siblings or wives

They seem to think I am their counsellor, some kind of therapist
When God was giving out social skills, they were obviously missed
They have absolutely no boundaries, have never heard of discretion
I pity the poor priest who has to listen to their confession!

And women are the worst, lest there be any doubt
You would not believe the personal stuff they tell me about
They get very inappropriate, though I do the best I can
To remind them of the fact they are talking to a man!

Some of these people have meltdowns, lose the plot altogether
And a little part of me just wants to say “Whatever!”
But I look in their eyes, where I often see tears glistening
And despite all my best efforts, I always end up listening

Those I meet just once on trips, well they are bad enough
But those in my social circle think I am their new BFF
Even though when I bump into them I could not be much colder
It is never long before they start crying on my shoulder

And soon they’re sending friend requests to me on Facebook
And following me on Twitter, God they’re everywhere I look
No matter how I try I cannot seem to shake them loose
So now I am seriously considering becoming a recluse

While these people are annoying, I have to say I’m worse
Because I really start to care, what an awful ****** curse
When I should just tell these people to please leave me alone
I start to listen to their issues, so I cannot really moan!

We should have more time for those in need; that is my belief
and my listening to these people seemed to give them some relief
but while these people seemed much better, having got things off their chest
I am bothered by all their issues and find I am constantly stressed

So if you meet me now I might seem very unsociable altogether
But my experiences with these people have pushed me to the end of my tether
And so I have taken my mothers advice, (she obviously knew the dangers)
For she always warned me as a child; “Never talk to strangers!”
 Jun 2015 Tea
Vamika Sinha
She warns herself
to cork the wine tangling
up all her breaths.
She doesn't want to drown,
she doesn't want to guess.

But she does,
she does.

She realizes,
nauseous, breathless,
that she's stopped looking for stars
in the sky,
but has begun to search for them
in wine glasses and
a boy's eyes.
She desperately doesn't want to. Desperately.

But she does,
she does.

Her mouth is smeared with
straw-gold honesty
because in the morning
it'll be crimson again -
a scarlet as sharp as a
poison dart.
So right now, she enjoys the pale golden.
Fizzing from her mouth and
coursing through her shaking hands and
enveloping her and the lost boy beside her
like a red and blue coat that they can't shake off.
She wants to say:
This is the winter of our denial.
Of our everything and anything and whatever it is,
this thing we can't name.

But she doesn't,
she doesn't.

The Chardonnay isn't
golden enough for that.

All it can gurgle out is:
Don't do it, don't do it.
It'll mean something.

And she listens,
she listens.

She walks back out into the cold night
because she must.
And she collapses into herself
like stars and galaxies do, don't they?
In the morning, she'll paint some false sunshine
onto her face again.
And pretend she isn't bruised all over,
all red and blue,
golden and crimson.
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