The Traveller

I settle down in the coffee shop
Pen and coffe cup to my side
Amidst the hustle that surrounds me
as I try to influence what i write.

Recently I find my self travelling
Hopping from train to train.
Every station i pass a blur
To my blind and wearied soul.

From dimly lit Jazz clubs
To the big neon lights
of cities drowned in whisky
purchased from penniless loose change.

Everyday i busk
the chords I hastily write
for the common ignorant civilian
whom is blind to my severing presence.

As my beard roughly grows
Along with my hair now overgrown-
That hides my withering face
Complimented by my now tattered clothes.

Is this how it’s meant to be
for a novelist and poet?
Living un-noticed in the shadows
of ignorant modern life.