Young Writers Project

The lights in each of the doll houses are off.

I, a giant, wander insignificant

Among the grains of sand.

When at last I reach the sea,

I let it take me, 

Dirt and grime and grease

We lie tired

Bundled up in puffers and scarves

On the pleather seats of the bus that felt like home. 

You rummage through your red lunchbox, 

Unpacking each item carefully 

and all his other songs, album covers mostly variations of a homesick grayish-green. Acoustic guitar thrumming through the speakers in steady 4/4 time.