Junk Gypsy (Part 1)


Hello, I’m a junk gypsy.
I store up what is considered worthless.
I put it in my pocket like it has value.
I pile up what is considered useless.
My biggest treasures are old and discarded articles.
Hello, I’m a junk gypsy, but only with my emotions.
So all my junk isn’t here physically.
Sure feels like it, but it’s all inside metaphorically.
You see I’m still stuck with everything that’s frozen.
My mind is a broken Mecca.
Hello, I’m a junk gypsy.
I’m a person who is free-spirited.
My personality is nomadic.
I’m a person who does not stay long in the same place.
A nomad with no comforts of home forever a wanderer.
Hello, I’m a junk gypsy, but only with my emotions.
So as I go nowhere, I go everywhere.
I’m all over the place when I stand still.
My mind goes here, then there, and then further over there.
Back and forth it goes like a swing on chains.
Hello, I’m a junk gypsy.
It’s nice to meet you finally.
But don’t expect me to feel like this forever.
Hello, I’m a junk gypsy, but only with my emotions.
I’m sorry I’ve already forgotten you.
My heart is running on empty, so I can’t let you in right now.
Hello, I’m a junk gypsy.
Maybe we can meet again one day.
On a day I don’t feel so dead.

I’m dead, but I’m still alive.
I’m rotting inside while I’m awakening.
It can be confusing being a gypsy.
I’m here one day and then I’m gone.
On to the next treasure that fills my broken heart.
To the pieces of junk I let fill up my head.
All the old emotions come forward again.
It’s better to feel something than to never face the pain.
So I’m a junk gypsy.
Collecting a bunch of useless human emotions to feel something.
Hello, I’m a junk gypsy.
We hide in the darkest corners of our serenity.
We’re the troubled souls claiming to be untroubled.
The night filling up our minds is the only reason we go out to see the Sun.
We keep going even though our future feels uncertain.
Living up to the moment because we know what it feels like for our time to be taken.
So here we are acting like life-loving maniacs.
But at the same time, we leave a lot of things forsaken.
But we have purposes, I promise.
We don’t mind the loss because we’ve lived in it forever.
We’ll only feel it on these pieces of paper.
Call it what you want, call it living in fear.
Gypsies don’t tend to care what people think.
So we’ll keep living through our writings like we’re collecting junk.
Although it’ll seem useless, we’ll add some worth.
We’ll take old rotten emotions and make them work.
But only junk gypsies can make this magic.
But I think we all have some junk inside us waiting to be used.
And I think we all have the urge to run inside us waiting to be written.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem