Entering unknown,
sitting, drinking, waiting.

Staring down from
pub balconies, out
large windows;

I see how
people go places,

how they look like
other people.

Turning my head,
I notice how my eyes
are avoided,

a space as small as
a hotel room.

Connecting past with
present,

familiarity grows,
like an extra limb from
the center of my chest.

I'd like for us to
have the chance

to find that place
we call our own.

The kind you'd
visit as a child,

making beds in the grass,
drawing stories in the dirt;

climbing fences
that prevented cows
from getting out.

The kind with a view,
a wide-stretched vista;
sun, hills and sky;

another world
created purely for
it's viewer.

—And I remember
as a child,

I'd resort in
covering my face,

when there was
nowhere left to hide.

But with dirtied
hands it's not so easy,

my shadows
take good care of that,

and I save my light
for whoever sees past
them, before

knowing what was
really there.

Not shy, scared
of what I can

and cannot say,
because all my

opinions state
that I don't care.

Conversations
are a drag—

I smoke, I drink,
and they all tell me
the same things.

I listen,
but not quite.

Then again,
I'm forever
repeating myself,

and no one
ever,
*******,

listens, to me.

The fact is
my mind's
a miniature
circus—

thoughts are
the fleas,

jumping back and
forth
from ideas

thin as tightropes,
air dry as cotton, a
stoners mouth.

I can't even
listen to myself.

I was to lay myself down
upon cool, dry sand,
listen as the waves came

rushing in, as if each carried
its own confession.

Instead I found myself
nestled in roots of twisted tree,
building tiny villages, from

leaf and twig- parted from
the ocean.

Unestablished and without
identity.

This poem mimics
boredom.

These words have waited
patiently

for their chorus.

This is a story
of a man sat quietly
at his desk,

searching for
substance to chew on
spit out, and

still resume its
flavour.

As regrets
transition from
doings,

into a single feeling,
it becomes

difficult to pin-point

what it was
that made you act
in such ways.

Time has passed,
and you can't help
blame

the little you
have inside on
what little is

received, or what
little effort you've
made to capture

anything
to fill the space.
—
So, when
those you meet
have stories,

stories to
traumatize the
soul,

you gather
your
absurdities,

realise there's
no use

comparing.

As we
  withdraw from
one another,
   (when our
day is through)
   parts of you
stick like salt from
  the sea,
which in turn,
   I cling to,
instead.