Foot Traffic
Confined by the limbs of claustrophobia
Cursing quietly the uncertain of stride
Determined to cut through this disturbia
Dirty is every glance to the side
Goache is the current of the guileless
Grievance unto others but a mystery
Lost within fogs of listlessness
Lulled into a false sense of maturity
Publicly dispossessed of purpose
Positioning an unfathomable idea
Volunteering for a game of versus
Vacuous to the point of insincere
Unstudied in the movements of union
Unaware by selfish degree
Yearning only for a straight line to yon
Yes, neighbor, peripheral vision is deceased
Trampoline
The pollution of external dialogue
Spewing forth as a so-what aside
From a soddened, muttering mad dog
With only himself in which to confide
Perhaps he’s a sooth, a vagrant seer?
More than likely a hopped-up bum
Should I listen or laugh; why must I fear?
There is, after all, nowt wrong with asylum
But let's say I to engage Mister Gabber
If only through a squint of salvo
Would he smile at my counter-chutzpah
Or cut me down with spitting vitriol?
Yet if it's poetry, I would recognize it
If it is gibberish, I should know
But I could get stuck fast; best cut to the quick
I’m on the clock, in the end; places to go
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