Poetry Taxi Poem

Published on March 17th, 2011 | by George Wyngaardt



I am driving home from work in a rusted taxi.
Tourist taking pictures of the mountain while a kid starves close by a shack scene .

Blank stares thoughts seem suspended, everyone seems to have their own agenda .
So I take the minutes on my cell phone and count the seconds to my way home.

Its hard to take this life serious, a race with no cheese the thought seems hilarious.

No mystery,
its the boredom plaguing human life, Michael lived a good life now he is history.

The rudeness of reality beats a tabloid fantasy of vanity.
Yet it still sucks, kids get fucked by brutes for a few bucks while politicians are at their tailors getting their suits tucked.

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George Wyngaardt

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