Some people you push away so they don’t get hurt when you die,
Nothing to be done about it, but you still try,
Everything you see slowly slurred by falling rain,
Moving through dry streets, the pour throbbing in each vein
Past the morning psychos in their polos, in their slacks,
Whispering and rustling about your grays and blacks,
Wishing you could be alone, in silence, intact,
As you work whatever job would dare to have you back,
Thinking of someone who’d be real hurt when you die,
Thinking about how far away he’ll be when you try.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s