Saturday, February 27, 2010

Weed

They all do the same things
over and over
and over again;
with a bit of change in the colour
of the flowers they pick for Valentine,
and a bit of change in the pattern
of the shirt underneath their suit;

they change their manifesto but
turn out to have the same goals:
You! Hey! In the corner,
you should come out, join the crowd
and enjoy your lonely alcohol late at night in the bar,
and, damn it, where are your friends, fellow?

Join our club, we have an 'ist' at the end of our name,
we're the hot topic they all talk about;
you, you who are sitting there alone sipping coffee,
does anyone ever talk about 'you' too?

They have their twists in fate and some
even happen to really mean what they say,
and have a story to stick to but lack something:
where is 'my' story?

Which is unique, is pale,
was unwanted at first and then
grew like a weed
through their walls,
to their warm beds,
haunted them in the shower,
dropped them dead the minute they finally heard it.

 

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