It’s a striving world, this thing is,
A place of pushing and pulling,
A get outta my way place,
An I’m right, you’re wrong place
That leaves us yelling from across the road
Like a couple of squabbling chickens.
It’s a burning place, this thing,
Tinder dry scorched souls
And everyone is carrying a torch.
It’s an earbud world, this noisy place
A jogging smart phone
random selected soundtrack world of internal sounds
where you have to unplug to be heard,
to ask what was that?
Because it is my voice, my aural shield, that matters.
A place cluttered with broken pieces
We left behind like a car with a smoking transmission
On a dark street at midnight.
Things we make someone else’s problem.
Childhoods, hearts, dreams,
Stuff we picked up, rolled around and crumbled
And left scattered on some trail as if we were coming back
With a pot of glue to fix it.
As if you’d be waiting.
As if I could walk up, sit down and say, Hey, sweetheart, how the hell are ya?
As if it would start again where it left off.
Wordless wondering incomplete
With sad eyes and small tears
With a hollowness that ever echoes
With a basket of loneliness strapped like a gunnysack
That I asked you to fill.