Poem on the underground 

Travelling back at night is a weird experience. 

Travelling with people you don’t recognise. 

Travelling with people you know aren’t rushing home to see their family. 

These people are travelling for a different reason. These people are travelling because they’ve not got a lot to go home to. 

They are the regular train goers, they are the regular arrive home late goers.

 You are the stranger. 

These commuters value money and one night of good times more than happiness. 

Artifical love.

But these are also the people that don’t see their loved ones because they love them so much. 

These are the ones that care about the wellbeing of others before themselves. 

They think an average wage results in happiness. Which is true. 

That caring about the realistic makes you a person, not an object.  

They live, we live, we’ve just got to find a balance.