Hopeless days start like a broken phrase,
trudging the same maze – limited are my days.
Stubborn lint in my pocket,
I’m grateful for my sanity.
Shattered mirrors at my feet,
mad symbols of disoriented vanity.
Bent spoons contort the vision,
another moon means I’m still missing.
Pain is relative – but so are my relatives.
Faceless ghosts haunt my psyche,
only the divine can forgive.
A constant mémoire as l bicker with the winter,
indignant stares find their mark – silent questions have their answer.
Serenity in living invisible,
closed hands while I pray.
I’ll ride this graffiti train until I find my way.
– I wrote this after a random discussion with a homeless man on the subway. I will never forget that day because it made me realize that everybody has a story no matter how invisible they appear to society. –