Why do people act colder in the heat of crowds?
Do we need less people to give more love?
I am writing this in a crowded bar
the smoke of other peoples’ lungs poisoning our air
as we came to share our bodies not our souls.
And I flicked a bug from my finger
I thought I’d squashed it against the table
but, it picked itself up, amazing, cause bugs don’t have fingers
and I wondered if I would be able
to pick myself after such a crushing blow
to just take wing and never stop to go
to fly away as though nothing had happened
I don’t think I’d ever wanna land
cause there’s too many hands.
I could live in the air without any fear
I’d call the stewardess, ‘Please bring me my beer!’
I’d never look out the window
I’d never think of down below.
My heart’s a paper tiger
mere words could cage me
and the actions of another can make me misjudge me
but watch this bug just fly away
maybe I should buy a ticket for that airplane.