The streets are busy with silence,
And Sammy is in his own little world,
Focused on his own private route.
His own secret place,
Private, it’s a funny word,
A funny word just like, secret,
Sometimes we fail to realize how we carelessly carry our secrets on our sleeve.
Sammy wants his feelings, emotions, his life to be hidden away,
Still, in the silence of the streets,
I see the sadness and stress all over his stance.
The shops are packed with stillness,
And Sammy is doing his job, keeping stands tidy,
Keeping customers happy,
Making his manager proud,
Happy, it’s a strange word,
A strange word just like proud,
Feelings for ourselves that we sacrifice for the satisfaction of strangers.
Sammy thrives on the temporary moods of others to determine his contentment,
Yet, in the stillness of the shops and the silence of the streets,
I see the sadness and the stress all over his stance,
In each fragment of his face.
Between the shops and the streets,
Sammy finds a place that he can refer to as home,
But in the silence and the stillness of his slow beating heart,
He understands that something greater than his being is missing.
And Sammy needs a friend, a friend to show him the truth.
A friend to show him that in the stillness of the shops and the silence of the streets,
He carries sadness and stress all over his stance,
In each fragment of his face, and in each shy shift of each shoulder,
For one reason, and one reason alone.
He’s missing one more word oozing sibilance,
The one word that completes, this poem and will fulfill his life.