I kept telling myself to write it.
It’s just a poem.
It’s just a poem that I need to write.
Just like I was just a kid.
Just a kid sitting in the bus station.
Late at night in the early morning
I was just a passenger waiting for a ride.
Just some teen.
Like 17 or 18, maybe 19.
Just a teenage guy sitting in the bus station.
Just tryna get to my girlfriend.
Just lost my virginity a few weeks ago.
Just a guy,
Tryna get some pussy
Just like any teenager would.
Tryna get to the girl who was my first kiss
Would later mother my first child.
But this is just a poem
About this other guy.
Just sitting in the train station
In the late night early morning hours.
Just a guy lurking.
Just a guy who said hi.
Just a conversationalist looking to perfect craft
It’s just a drink.
It’s just a hand on the lower back
Just a back rub relax…
I shouldn’t be writing this
But it’s just a poem.
Just like he was just an attempted rapist.
Not a gay rapist or a straight rapist;
A rapist isn’t a villain because of their orientation.
It’s the action that counts,
It’s the thought that leads to action.
I’m just a man.
Just flawed and hurt.
Just remembering what it was like to be in foreign bed with stranger’s arms holding on to hopes of access
Just a man who escaped.
Mad because someone else more than likely took the thrust for me.
Someone else knows victim because I clawed a way away.
Just a man wishing I took the breath from him.
No more lurking.
No more just sitting in bus stations causally waiting for new arrivals
And forlorn lovers.
I just didn’t have it in me.
I was just a kid.
Covered in vomit that may have saved me.
Just a bummy youth on a bus stop bench
Hiding shame and guilt for taking the drink when offered.
Just a naive kid who wanted to see his girlfriend.
Just a kid, who now has a poem to write.
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