We judge him for he is not one of us!
We mock him for his mind –
He’s actually rare to find.
A raw passion of a child
Trapped in adult form.
Why do we mock him for being him?
Yet preach peace and equality?
What happened to our reflective mirrors?
Did they burn in our hypocrite flames?
Maybe he’s free;
Maybe we’re the ones who cannot see.
Just, just let him
He comes home from school
on the weekends –
to the home he doesn’t really belong in.
He dumps his bag of used clothes on the floor,
throws his case gently into a corner,
removes his dulled shoes,
collapses on the bed
and cries silently into the pillow.
He is woken by screaming:
his mother –
telling him to work harder
and blabbering off a list of weekend duties.
His eyes are red.
His heart is bruised.
His life is not his until he leaves this hell.
I have the moves
The purple groves
I feel the beat sink into my fibres
It takes right to the core
I don’t dance to live
I live to dance and dance till death
My body just goes to the flow
Whether fast or slow
I can feel the eyes surmise
I smile and sweat because I dance tonight
I need no drugs, no liquid inspiration, injection
To feel the music’s sweet infection
I tilt towards the floor, drop down
Jump to catch the beat and bounce
Ready to pounce
When they encircle I’m taken away
hallucogenic satisfaction sprints in my pulse
And my eyes close because my body knows
Tonight I’m a winner and I’ve won this fight.
Not sure why he sits –
like a statue –
The pigeons join him.
He doesn’t look lonely,
but he looks lost.
I can’t help but stare,
each day I stare.
Until I decide to talk to him…
He doesn’t respond –
I think he’s dead – that would explain it.
But nobody has done anything…
Nobody has done anything…
Then I see it: my reflection in his eyes.
A fateful truth I’ve been avoiding:
I am nobody.