Observer...

One day I hope to make writing my only profession, at the moment, that is only a distant dream. In this poem, I wanted to reflect on my observations throughout the day.

Unfortunately, this poem is not as positive as I would have liked, but hey, at least there is a good ending?

Silent observer,

holding folded paper,

scribbling knotted ligature.

/

Tired eye,

pursuing sudden movement,

searching,

for a missing smile.

/

Mile after mile,

mechanic profile,

shining proudly on the chest.

/

Everyone's a macho,

on this constant show,

of a cheap pride,

and useless rides.

/

Forgery,

like plastic,

covering the naked skin.

/

Sorcery,

they torture me,

torching,

the thin jacket of my bones.

/

Shadows, figures,

rushing headlamp,

illuminating the emptiness of a pit.

/

Observer folds the paper,

whispering some curse,

or prayer,

rare occasion

for such temptation.

/

Grounded in the concrete,

but visibly,

almost spiritually,

lost,

in the vastness of the horizon.