This fucking city

This old man’s yelling,
almost screaming
as the spit flies
and the two listening
just shake in fear.
This could be a reward,
something for someone
who’s tending to the ways we think.
That lone person
just handing out promises
to anyone who might be listening.
There must be
a better way to feel,
a way to compound
these hopeless emotions
into one clear thought
that will always be there
after all the others
have let go
and fallen out of reach.
We build these conversations
as our ties deepen
and the games
have long finished,
but now
while the air turns cold
and the nights get darker
I just peel myself
away from the things
that I enjoy.
Until I get that feeling,
any feeling
that could resemble
something better
than what I’m doing
here and now.

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About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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