The doors slid aside at Métro 1,
A interminable tube driven by an inhumane robot,
To take hundreds to their lovers, their homes, their offices.

A girl fantasying about her lover, A man scathe in love,
An old woman enamored with The Price of Salt,
facing the young man with a Kindle spirit.

A foreign girl with passion for the city,
slides through the crowd,
And an indigenous man wished he was somewhere else than here.
At the next stop a man bids a farewell kiss to her girlfriend.
And in comes a middle-aged couple,
Enters in with a hatred for one another.

I stood for my final stop,
the doors slid aside,
and I got down.

A couple of goodbye words to these swaths of strangers,
who color my dark life with smiles and tears.
"Farewell strangers, I shall meet you another day at another time."

You know what it feels like to be sad. But there’s a certain type of sad that not everyone has felt. And if you have, you’re not exactly the minority, but I feel for you. You feel terrible, you feel like you just found the edge of the world and you’re so very disappointed because you grew up being so sure that there’s so much to see in the world, but you found the end of it all. Mentally, it feels like someone decided to pound the inside of your skull with a maillot. Physically, it feels like you just got hit by a bus, but nobody cares so you’re just laying limp and pathetic in middle of the road not knowing what to do because you just got hit by a bus. Unable to respond to your nerves, you lay there, hoping for a sign of life. A sign that you’re still here and you’re bloods still pumping through your veins and your nerves are still working properly. I find myself in this specific type of sad quite often.. It eats away at your brain until you feel too stupid to care about anything. It tears away at your soul until you’re just a sad outer shell of a human with a dark, lightless pit inside you where your soul should be, but is no longer.  
So you’re laying in the road, unfeeling and unnoticed by society, you decide you don’t seem like you exist right now, so maybe you don’t. You’re trapped in the never-ending, always-frustrating maze of sadness. You need to get out, you need to find your way back into your life, back into everyone’s life and try harder to make an impact. So next time when a bus does hit you, they’ll notice. So you cut open the maze. And it feels so good to do it too, it feels like the weight of the world is flowing through that cut. Out of you and back into the world for someone else to bare. You cant explain it, and you know you’d sound crazy if you tried, but it feels so good to do something so outrageously stupid and unacceptable. But you think oh its okay because now they’ll notice! Now they’ll care and I wont have to cheat my way through a maze ever again! Hooray, right?
           No.                 Because you were wrong.                You need to find help.
You’re addicted to hurting yourself and you’ll just go on cheating your way through life instead of going on a fabulous journey and having the sweet reward of finding the end of the maze. So take my advice. No matter how hard it seems, every maze has an ending. You cant stay lost forever, and you should be able to make it to the end undamaged and strong knowing you didn’t have to cheat give in to pain.

The darkness of oxblood naugahyde booths barely steeped
in feeble candle light
Cocktails upon cocktails and cigarettes until we realize,
my companion and I,
That we have been completely blocked in
No chance of escape
Not even to ***
So we’re basically sliding out to nowhere.

In time the tabletop becomes covered
with the rings of dripping condensation
from Guinness cans.
Wet ring upon ring sparkle and
At times aluminum is slammed down upon the table,
And not at all casually.
You see, we were being marked
as theirs
A mighty squadron of faux suede heads
blocking access so
that no **** Yank may approach

(and this is Hollywood)
They might as well have hung a Union Jack)

These two birds
We were territories to be given
To Her Majesty.
I’m Hope and She’s Glory.
Or is it.....

They keep announcing to us that
“Diana is dead.”
And we keeping replying “yes, we know,
the tv is on,” pointing behind us.

Earlier that night
we sat on the floor
At the coffee table
Snorting narrow lines of *******
with CNN on in the background
They announce twice as we lean back and wipe our nostrils that
Diana, Princess of Wales
has been in a motor crash
and has broken her wrist.

Well that *****.
A broken wrist in Paris.
We returned our focus back
to the coffee table
and the announcer comes back
this time with a completely different tone
Sombre
Really sombre
He states
Diana, Princess of Wales
Is Dead.

Dead?
We announced to each other
with jinx simultaneity and incredulity.
It was just her wrist?

Once at the bar we made cracks
About off-shore bank accounts
receiving wire transfers from the Queen.

That previous summer in the first food aisle of
Rock and Roll Ralph’s
I turned towards the sunlight and
saw her image on an American tabloid
Displayed in the point of sale racks
At checkout
There were two rather fuzzy photos
Shining golden hair on a turned feminine head
A blue maillot
A diving board off a yacht
Arms wrapped in the Sea
And I thought softly to myself
“Oh no.”
But I can’t even tell you why.