a poem; or, sometimes, hearing everyone’s thoughts, it gets uproarious.

by banannalouise

the man at the bus stop said I was beautiful

last night, that my eyes were so blue

and that my wings made such a sound, like music.

he spoke to me about subatomic particles,

and how birds fly by seeing God and death at the same time.

he said he could see that I was good

and that he loved me.

if I had written down everything he said,

I could have been the next great poet.