prefer the scratch of synthetic led to tree
over the clank of awkward fingers over plastic
and yet
its all relative
cuz i find myself now
clanking away into the evening
there is no story here yet
just a bunch of strangers
face to face on a metro train
and a burn victim asking for a change
and a woman who sings like someone i must have heard in a dream
makes me wonder about how easy it is to be worthy of greatest
and yet
fall short
find yourself begging for change
or demanding it another way
like i said
there is no story here yet
just a set of strangers
who might never cross paths again
and a violins
echoing through the tunnel
and a boy who's frozen
watching the masterpiece unfurl
and so here i am
scribbling away
scribing nonsense
in an overpriced book of trees
with an over priced pencil, japanese
with nothing worthy of the voice iʻve been given
just a reflection
of a young boy's smile
as he learned his love for music
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