So there's nothing that I particularly want to discuss. I just know that I need to write, and that is what I'm doing.
Head held low, brows furrowed, he takes in the world.
No name necessary. He just is.
Nobody gives him an afterthought,
he just looks like a man with time to waste.
He's an anomaly in this big city of dreams--both wasted and realized.
He finds time to meditate, narcotic-free, amidst the hustle and bustle.
Those without this luxury part him like the Red Sea,
letting their scorn and dirty looks hover in the polluted air.
Doesn't matter to him. He's just decided to run for office.
His only platform: Manipulate time, don't let it manipulate you.
He's high on something he wishes he could pass on the left-hand side.
Yet, he knows nobody would give him the time of day.
So he's just a nameless man,
a preacher without a pulpit,
and a man without a place to be.
He just is.