From point A to point B

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Seems the message has lost its clarity,
I hide behind my sarcasm, a poor man’s prosperity,
Irritating….My insecurities buzzing like flies,
I’d seem more sincere if I could look you in the eyes,
But it feels like trespassing…I cannot decide on this or that,
Just a drifter looking for the welcome mat,
Your answer seems so pre-defined so why bother ask?
I should quit while Im ahead and put on my mask,
But yet I sit and think of what I’d say,
About how much i like you, I dream of the day,
But when the day comes, I don’t come clean,
I protect myself, say things I don’t mean,
Trying to find my point? Pick your spots,
There hidden in my stumbling words and misleading thoughts,
Don’t know what to say? I’ve probably confused you,
Just blame it on me…..I always do.

Home

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The color of mother’s hair is given to me
It returns to the original white
The look in father’s eyes is passed on me
It shows the indifference of old face
A very beautiful name
A place I was attached to
When lights are off one by one
except one
When every door is closed tightly
except one
There is only one yellow light
There is only one unlocked door
Wherever I fly to or go across
As long as I turn around
There is always a light, behind a door
Just because it has a very beautiful name
It has the width and tenderness of the sea

The Scenic Route

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Late as always, the boy finds his way
and boards the moving train.
He moves to an open spot,
and sits beside Chance,
. . . or was her name Coincidence?
Curious anyways the boy glances over,
noticing her calling eyes,
and selfish smile,
. . . just asking to be caught.
Was this that game he heard so much about?
or just two people playing Solitare?
Feeling a little optimistic,
the boy keeps pretending,
but saying anything would be a calculated risk.
One cannot help but notice,
how this conversation was molded,
by the same men who built these tracks.
And one cannot help but wonder,
how the scenery can be passing them by,
and they can be standing in one place.
So he heads to the exit and escapes,
to his trusty scapegoat, “Well maybe next time.”
Because this is his stop,
so he’s getting off.