After a decade i've finally seen them again.
I met one while she's on a stage,
Performing around an audience
Of boring lives and wives.
She dances like she likes it,
Waves her body like its the ocean
Of the lost and tired soul
As her surprised-turned-shy eyes
Land on mine.
I met another on a public transport
As I was busy on the phone.
He's collecting valuables from the people.
No, not, he's not a beggar.
He's got a firearm 'round his fingers.
Didn't notice 'till he approached
And asked for the phone in my hand.
And all I was was like:
"Hey, how've you been?"
And he vanished in recognition.
The last one was when I was out singing.
He was dealing peanuts along the street
And roam around to have more sales.
I bought some and heard many
Of his unhappy ending lot,
Of how he came to a life like that,
No job, no firearm, and no stage,
Just his dignity and the streets.
Oh, how the years make us grow.
YOU ARE READING
No Rhymes, Just Rhythms of My Own
Poetrya storage of loud and silent outbursts---of any known human emotions. Mere compilation of previously published individual poems and newly inspired creations.
