I exist in the voices,
gentle, ricocheting against
the loud bass in the background
and speaking in hushed tones
in corridors where the tiles
are no longer bleached white.
I exist in that TV volume, defined
by the bars that identify the
intensity of my intent,
exist in the grrr grr grinding
of thoughts into an unpalatable
mush, that I got served for
I am defined by the water striking
the s(k)in(k) surface, I am that
you no longer pay attention to,
the mundane, I am, the (l)ord-inary.
I split like a water bubble.
I am not my self(ves).
Linking it up with Poets United Midweek Motif.