this may sound odd, but i wrote you a poem.

i wrote a poem for the boy sitting next to me on the train, today, on my ride home from philadelphia. the thing is: i actually gave it to him. he was sitting there, reading something out loud (a monologue, i think, and he was trying to memorise it), and it was one of the nicest, most beautiful things i've ever been able to witness.

to the boy on the train

you are:
fraternizing, memorising, realising
that all life is just a stage.
its players are those who read books
OUT LOUD
to one another, to themselves,
to find the expression
the emotion
the intonation
right for the situation,
so that they may be a part
of the play within a play.
an actor doing his job:
to make other worlds come through
into the one we dare to call
our own.
and it is beauty, word for word.

untitled, as of yet.

red brick stained black; you are the charcoal, the soot that makes it so.
you are the smoke from the engine
round, full
aching for release from whatever confines you have created
for yourself on this train, this ride.
you are the broken down bridge by the side of the tracks
with spray-painted incorrections (grammatical, too idealist, not enough life, or too full of false confidence)
plastered on its walls.
the lime corrodes your stature, like false truths
blown somewhere (north, south, up up up) on the wind.
you are the scene of the crime,
the death of my self and the birth of our selves together
and with every exhale, you breathe
my life.

now i know why i don't write poetry, like, ever.