The Global You

You.

You are the pencil that scribbles across the fresh paper;
a middle man of imagined verses and couplets, stanzas and sentences.

You are the secret love;
of a kid who can't bring themselves to speak coherently when it comes to you.

You are that ass down the hall;
who has that yipping canine, testing it's vocals at the latest and ungodliest of hours.

You are the poet;
that feeds on nothing more than coffee, cigarettes and alcohol, forsaking nourishment for inspiration.

You are the old man;
that sits, day in, day out, widowed and lonely on the public park bench, sandwich in hand -- saving only a bite for himself, the rest thrown to cooing pigeons.

You are the cheating other;
claiming a moment of confusion and passion, begging forgiveness after you fuck the best friend. Or worst enemy.

You are the single mother;
who struggles with life daily, just to try and her three young children.
Left to support without support.

You are the apathetic and depressed teenager;
looking, searching, scrounging for love and belonging in self-injury and every piece of literature your hands lay upon.

You are the drummer;
who can't keep the time, whose flailing, failing limbs get lost somewhere between the batter, ride, crash and hi-hat.

You are the unsure priest;
who spends his days feeling empty, standing behind a podium and preaching.
Of saints and God, Heaven and Hell, scripture and Sin, both new and old.

You are the scientists' aide;
who will be lucky to be but a small scribble, a footnote, in his biography.
The book about how he, and he alone, cured the incurable and put humanity back on track.

You are the addict with a dead sister;
stumbling drunk and bleeding through streets lined with brick buildings.
It looks almost like home, but there's something not quite right.

You are the sunspots and the radiant light.
You are the writing on the wall whispering gentle truth.
You are the everything to my nothing.

You are nothing in the everything.
You are the sad one, primed to jump, end.
You are the messy sketch on a napkin, the mark of a day tripper.

You are the static on the tele;
and in my mind.

You are the definition of abstract.