Where I Heard Strange Guitar

A hard, wooden bench

Heavy, soggy, stifling air

The summer crowd

And a solemn heart


Scared little girl

Desperate to be

Anywhere else

Somewhere without force 


Escaping, or trying to

To the farthest recesses of her mind

Ignoring the words and scorns

Cross-eyed at the acid green carpet


Going through the motions

Emotionlessly, defeated and accepted 

Stale and fermented 

Unpleasant, stiff people


Maybe the worst

Is the dirty and blonde boy

Who stares and touches,

Reaches out with fingers fresh from his nose

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