Weird

Sometimes you wonder if certain things
Are about you or about them
About how you feel or how they feel
Or even how they want to make you feel;

Are questions asked really about the answers
Or do the questions themselves mask the answers?

Herein lies the issue with our stuff:
We simply write it all out in rough
Then substitute words to make them flow
Yet most times we forget the larger whole;

If everyone took care of themselves
There would be more hands to go around;

Does this all sound a little weird?
Who knows.. maybe its deliberate.

Reverie, Memories

Standing in the middle of the square
Looking around at people everywhere
A million scenes flash before his eyes
Trying not to think of all those dreadful lies;

His dad told him to write a poem with a rhyme
Like how he thought writing without one was a crime
But all that doesn’t mean much to him now
Standing there thinking nothing but why and how;

He remembers the times she waited for him by the shop
Looking at the spot now he almost sees her in her spaghetti top
But all that is nothing more than just a distant pain
Standing there alone staring at the same spot in the rain;

The poem has long expired from the first word on
The fact of the matter is nothing more than ‘now she’s gone’
Yet lost deep in his memories he sees her again
And off he runs after her not knowing it is all in vain;

Reverie, memories.