I look on inconsequential memories
and wonder brings tears to my eyes
on the same street corners
that otherwise pass unnoticed.

Sometimes the mind grasps
at old symbols and ways of living,
getting out of bed is a victory,
whining voices in the subway pure annoyance.

Sometimes these same voices are a symphony
singing the human story.

I am like a tiny baby,
looking at a terrifying world
of senseless forms,
crying when my eyes
fall on pathetic sights
of homeless children
and dried up dreams;
and sometimes when I’m in a bar
stood next to a pretty girl
our bodies centimetres apart
it’s as though I didn’t notice
the miles separating our hearts
even though
we’re wearing the same glasses
drinking the same beer
and headed for the same tombstone.

I still have to affirm life’s strange beauty:
the fact that I feel lucky to take my next breath.
In the city I’m so overwhelmed
that I never pause to watch the clock go by,
in the country I’m so bored
that I never stop watching her hands turn.

The grass is always greener
the sun is always shining brighter
there’s always something to do
some way to fill this uncomfortable
void
screaming to be held like a lonely child
hiding behind an open door.

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