Tube
Stuck. Warm. My arm extends above in an awkward salute to the transport gods. Headphones press uncomfortably against my neck. My only comfort switched off. We are Over-populated today. Everyday? You spit at me with your words. I cannot move. Move me if you want, that’s the only way we’ll get to a different point.
I could not live here. I love here.
About the Creator
Emily Sara Andrews
Performer, Artist, Arts Facilitator, part-time poet and occasional spinner of yarns, not necessarily in that order.
Living and working in Stoke-on-Trent she takes inspiration from the wild, the weird and the ordinary.
Keep reading
More stories from Emily Sara Andrews and writers in Poets and other communities.
Repeat
Repeat It just repeats. It always repeats. It’s not a surprise. It will always repeat. You get drawn in. And it repeats. You get drawn in. And it just repeats. You get drawn in again. And it just repeats. It just repeats. It’s not new news. It just repeats. It’s a cycle. It’s a cycle. It’s something that always happens to you. He bleats. You repeat. He bleats. You repeat. And you repeat the cycle. And you repeat the cycle. And you kill the cycle. You kill the cycle. You kill the repeat. Until the next. And then you repeat. And then we repeat. And then I kill the cycle. And then we repeat. And then I repeat. And then we do what’s natural. We repeat. It just repeats. And it just repeats. It’s not new news. And when the repeating has killed us. And it will. The repeat moves on.
By Emily Sara Andrews6 years ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.