It's all rubbish.
Foil me if you will.
My little scheme of sitting here;
on a rusty discarded bench;
watching feet shuffle to a missed beat,
of a tune nobody cares to remember.
A crumpled newspaper lands on my feet.
Peacefully watching life drop like sweat
from imperfect faces;
not a teardrop,
a chemical reaction;
hormonal.
People come in all shapes and sizes.
Sometimes, the wrong ones.
Just like drops.
A fallacy blows past me, in the wind.
Polarity; my curse, my burden;
drops of sweat blown away
by the fallacy in the wind.
Free of charge.
Lying can change something,
like you change your hair.
It always grows out of shape.
You have to keep cutting;
and keep lying.
Cut the thread to your life;
gnaw away at the string.
But it's all gone in a slice.
I'm sitting here, watching legs and feet.
with a scissors and some string.
And a folded Paper cup that will never be the same again.
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