this young little soul
revel in his clothes, his choice of colour - or lack there of.
And me sounding like a tired adult,
Knowing that I myself,
am not that old,
deep down still a child.
The others snorted at my words, a chuckle of a laugh,
derision or whatever, but it does not matter,
because sooner or later, they will realise, eyes looking in on another scene,
of people who are not like us,
so loud and brash and full of bother,
nonsense to me, I hear their words, but my inner voice, it splutters only why,
why have you got to listen, to hear and put up with
just walk away find somewhere, another.
But where else is there?
this room, so big and yet so small,
my paint, those brushes, those drops
of ink staining the carpet,
running down walls.
And I have words, have thoughts and suggestions and ideas
but out there they are no more than raindrops upon my head,
bouncing off walls, fluttering through ears,
no more or less then ideas and tears.
Maybe this is my world too,
but still no matter,
their culture is not mine,
and yet they wish to share what is,
but they fail to see, to recognise and understand,
they could travel the world of the seven seas,
in ripped jeans, large holes,
crop tops and shorts
and still forget what they see smell or hear, our strife;
their still intoxicated,
and I always see clear.
Like crystal or glass, or the black box of my life.