there is was, sitting there
litter all around it
beer bottles, wrappers, used cigarettes fermenting the ground
its alone in the cold, days in, days out
a harsh realisation of the truth
writing covering the old, wooden slats.
'call me 04......'
'kashia's a slag'
'fuck you'
vague thoughts, memories, out there for the leaves to blow over
yet open for the world to see
its not a diary, but its not a work of art
it's never been loved, but it was built with patience and time
no-one will care for it
its alone
yet people will always come and go
leave it then come back
the bustop has a soul,does anyone think about it?
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