That bent old man sitting on the park bench. That silver haired beauty with a sad smile on her face. The forlorn eyes that watch you going to work everyday from the balcony next door. Each one with their stories, some happy, often very sad.


You think I can’t tell its me you’re talking about?
What have I done today? Spilt some milk? Talked too loud?
I try to tame them, beseech them,try to muffle them, while I’m walking or prone.
But these days my hands, just like my children, have a mind of their own.

You think I can’t tell that you’ve heard what I’ve just said?
Can’t I just sit with you for a few minutes before you push me to bed?
I know I tell the same stories at times. I can tell because you’re forever reaching for the door.
It’s all your mothers fault you see. Her eyes were always filled with wonder, it never seemed she was bored.

Do you think you could just slow down a little bit for me?
Somehow it never upset me waiting around for hours while you crawled around as a baby.
At times I stay up all night listening to my body creak and groan.
But I hate the silence even more, because that’s when I realise I’m truly alone.

This world is spinning too fast, I don’t think I can keep up with you.
Or then I am slowing you down, maybe that’s why your smiles around me are so few.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame you, in this expensive world nothing comes for free.
Keep your money , keep your time, just let me keep my dignity.

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