Nobody

Streets filled with nobodies destined to be nobodies, I watch from the safety of glass.
Old men lost, broken, and thrown away mumbling to themselves about things that never happened, and things that never will as the street lights glow on this dusty forgotten city.

Children of the nobodies ride with greasy hair as they kick the godforsaken earth below them throwing up dust, and the unimaginable.
I watched them all, and all the while self-conscious I judged them.

Through the parade of deflated balloons tied down to dust ridden cars in an almost forgotten lot, past the flickering lights of shady establishments, and the lonely jug of piss there is nothing to see here with open eyes.

The kicked down Retard sits on the bench at the grocery store, rocking back and forth with accusations; the cashiers just ignore him, and tell you to have a nice day.
You can hear in their voice that they don't mean it; they never have, and never will because inside all they want is to get out.

Streetlights flicker over the broken, and slack faces of the passers by casting shadows that hide their eyes and boast their insecurities by making them look like dusty orange skeletons set out for the children. But there are no children, and there are no adults because they are all nobodies.
Nobodies destine to be nobodies with the Sad Machine strapped across their backs feeding them life as we know it and death as we never imagined.

Well I want to create a new death, one worth waiting for.
A death like rain that will wash these dusty forgotten cars clean, and wash the grease from the hair of the kids on the corner.
A death that will hold such a promise we forget about life, and maybe then we'll finally learn how to live it.

I watch as the pavement gets violently caressed by thrashing shadows, and glaring headlights.
I watch as nobody after nobody comes in, and out of view.
Eyes that squint through the harshness of those careless drivers with their glaring headlights just trying to walk a straight line.
They're intoxicated, and their judgment is marred greatly as the step to the curb, and try to catch a ride via sixty mile an hour bumpers.

They shatter like china dolls, but with no real similarity at all.

To describe the feeling their faces exudes in me would come across as nothing more than a pointless euphemism, as I don't think any one word no matter how harsh or quiet could describe it.

It doesn't take a poet to sigh in the face of this town, and it doesn't take a poet to cry under the dusty streetlights, it just takes another nobody; desperate to be somebody.