Ping

Here I am,

Never to be where you are,

Maybe somewhere similar,

With reality,

Alone, but loved,

Pushed and shoved, through the rush hour crowd,

I'm quiet now, some work has been done,

I remember a thing as a child I used to call fun,

Until land belongs to me, the show goes on,

I train, I try, I write, I sleep well at night,

I see people in the street,

Always in a hurry, or always with some worry,

A slower tone, I'm not alone.

Ping, goes my phone.

I try not to scroll, too much can take a toll,

While we search for good love for our soul.

This world and where I'm from,

This place called Dublin, similar to none.

The words could write for days,

But a poem, a poem.

I have thing's I'd like to air,

But would someone really care.

Similar to the homeless in the city,

My writing is just there.

I did walk through the city today,

''Oh a long poem... such a pity'' some say.

I ran from one side to the other with a football at my feet,

The Garda are the police, they seen my skills,

Maybe one day football can pay some bills.

From Talbot Street, to Hammond Lane.

Some don't understand, the slang or the lingo,

Stereotyping, as it is my world,

And I don't drink it's alcohol

But I must as an Irish man.

As an Irish man, I mustn't,

So when the phone goes ping,

I am liable to sing.

I put coins in jars,

I look at the stars,

People smoking in their cars,

The bus is jammers, everyone zoned to the phone,

The old homeless man, sat alone.

I gave him a water, and walked off in wonder,

How I am in a better situation then him and I was clearly younger,

Choices and decisions, I'm not the person I once was,

I learn more about myself, as time continues to pass,

Equality protests in the streets, while toes curl in the sheets,

I don't take things where I shouldn't,

Because there was a day where I too couldn't,

Ping.