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.

Picture each day
not as a day, but an idea

printed on
a piece of paper,

put into a hat,
drawn from at random.

That you were to live
your life

scheduled to these ideas;
ideas unheard of by you.

Ideas so unlike you
they became

nothing but gestural,

no option but
to improvise your life...

what would
you do?

A spot by the rocks for
old time's sake, a river wide
divides city from

richer suburbs, trailing
the other side.

Thi city's buildings don't
exist,

only the primary colours
of distant windows,

port, and starboard marks
remain,

pixelated, and
dispersed upon the surface
of the river's

shimmering body.

The river is a road
without traffic,

I give way to the
nuances of its natural
behavior.