I AM SITTING ON A BUS
And how a moments beauty can berate your estranged
opinions of the world, yet she still was unsure of
life’s true purpose.
What? But a few presumably poetic words scratched
across a tattered piece of lined paper?
Why words? as they cause more harm than good.
If weren’t I but THIS person what would I be?
A dancer? An artist? Would my music sound as sweet?
But no, the world has no room for me as I cannot
conform to it’s idealistic views of normalcy.
I have embraced the invisibility that I have created
for myself to hide behind, for were I to step out from
behind it…So buy yet another black piece of
clothing and minimize these eyes with the chemical
lines I place upon them.
How but a steady stream of words does thought become
consciousness?
One question of the world forever
changes those encompassed within it.