That look

That look you gave me.
Squashed against stranger.
Daily commute,
hot writhing and sharp elbows.

That look,
as you tried desperately try to read the news,
paper held close, tight, folded.
Nearly smudging ink across your angry face,
carriage so tightly packed.

That look.
One glance tells a thousand stories.
Big city blues.
You’re not married.
Several failed relationships.
You hate your empty, cold one bedroom flat.
You’re lonely. 
And you’re furious, furious
that the only meagre piece of human contact,
the only time you feel another’s warmth,
another body
pressed hot to yours
is a strangers on a train.

Camouflage

It’s all a bit too much.
Feel sick
Feel like a prick
Opened my mouth
Let the words come out.

Now you’re laughing
Shouting
Going to prove me wrong
Prove I’m a dickhead all along.

No opinions for me.
You see
I’m thick. A cock.
A chip off the old fucking block.

Amounting to nothing was always my game
Keep my stupidity hidden in blankets of shame
Stay silent stop talking there’s nothing to see
Lose my voice that’s my choice to just stop being me.

It’s easier blending in with the crowd.
You’ll just tell me I’m stupid if I say things out loud.

Maybe it’s because

I’m not rude. Its just my general mood.
I’m a Londoner.

I can smile. But choose not to all the while.
I’m a Londoner.

I could hold the door, but don’t bother anymore.
I’m a Londoner.

I’ll push on the train. Won’t feel your pain.
I’m a Londoner.

You might be pregnant, need to sit. Think I give a shit?
I’m a Londoner.

I’ll bully you. You’ll do what I want you too.
I’m a Londoner.

Love the world’s greatest city. And watch me with pity.
I’m a Londoner.