its my verse

  Where were us idlers found 50 years ago? Train station. Doctor’s room. Traffic light. Walking. Boredom. Bored. Boring. Get me the hell out of here. So I do. Now, at my Train station. My doctor’s room. My traffic light. My daily walking. We just stare at a blinking screen, that satiates our boredom. Or that’s what they think I do. I read, but it’s all the same isn’t it. Same little rectangle outlined with black. Same little pucker above my brow. Same little gape upon my mouth. As I chase away my boredom. Bye-bye boredom. That’s what my parents think. Be bored, they say. It’s a skill, they say. Shut up, they mean. But what do you reckon they do? Well, child, while the world spins around, and the stars waltz with wonder, and exploding mines fill the East, while lovers mourn, as foes seethe, strangers sing with the grace of heaven flowing through their veins, My parents stare at that little rectangle outlined in black. Chasing away their boredom. I’m boring. I’m bored. Writing this, ...

A pretty piece of plastic sits on a shelf. S T A Y I N G One man runs forth. High vis, orange lights a star in the abyss of the factory.  But he never pays you, yourself any Attention. Oh, that will come later, darling. And still, (yes, we’re still waiting,) my pretty piece of plastic groans for the day, It will know my gentle play and unblinking stare For even when I drop it, when my heart stops a moment… It. Will. Stay. Oh darling, oh darling, it never falls apart! Because that sturdy little thing, it will just start once more, then over and over and  and over and over again. I swear it hears my distressed calls, yell out to my steel den, Then it lights up with Rakuten’s tree etched over its face Maybe a wink or two from the light above, And it blinks, this time its whole head, til it's retraced its steps all the way back home, my love Hey, weren’t those steps like how it found me? Yes! My pretty piece of plastic came dressed in wood and tree, after, I killed my past with sa...

  Time and time again friends come to me, they glance at my shard, never wanting it, they never know why I hold. The rest lost their way but my shard stays. Stubborn beast. You commit years of possession, yet only to flee when I glance at some other like you, but it's not you. 7 years and counting, free me from the sounds of your failings and what do I gain from grasping to my soul’s root of rage, the shard’s half my noise, even mute!