Subway People

early Sunday mornings in subway make you think

I'm underground and all I see

are faces in pain, indifference.

So, now I cannot breath.

What if I look the same?

That all people see is a sad face,

That I look like one of this subway folk,

who's only problem is how to get home:

to a house, big or small, with bed and kitchen,

a place where they're alone or someone's always bitching.

But what about Home with a big letter H, 

where all the dreams lie and no one hates?  

Oh no, I've reached this point of my life,

when I ask questions I should, but don't really like.

And with all these morning faces weighing me down,

It's hard to mute this awful sound,

this flow of information I fear to know:

am I one of THEM or I'll find my home? 

Author's Note

Asking questions in my poems becoming a part of my style, I guess.

Reviews

[Emily B]

I would say that you are definitely not one of them. You see and feel more. Take care of yourself.