A pen, a piece of paper, a person and a memory have nowhere to tell, so write it down. Static paper quietly listens to the stream of consciousness of the pen tip and quietly tastes the taste of chasing dreams. I am a street poet. I stood in the street, watching people coming and going, writing my own poems and dreaming my own dreams.
My poetry is my life. I take her everywhere, and I admit that she is quiet. I like sitting on a bench on a quiet street corner, lighting a cigarette, good or bad, and then slowly enjoying the scenery in front of me. I don't mind people throwing coins at me in the past. After all, I also need a life. I am not a beggar, because I have my own dreams. I dream about them every day, and then I write my poems, even though no one can understand them. I still keep writing. I like the feeling of paper and pen. My poem, my pen, my paper, and myself, the elongated shadows in the sunset make me feel lonely. The satisfaction in my heart makes me want to scream. Because there is no loneliness and fatigue in the world of poetry.
two
I am wandering aimlessly now, but I know what I am pursuing, and I am not worried that she will abandon me. Walking through the shop window, there is the latest fashion, but it is nothing like my poem, which fascinates me.
There are a group of pigeons and a group of people feeding pigeons in the square. Pigeons are fluttering in people's hands, fighting for food, and people are not afraid to come. Fly high when you are full, like a cloud covering the sun. They are elves in the square, and the camera is aimed at their most free and casual posture. The fountain in the distance is the quietest I have ever seen, without any noise, only the sound of water jumping passionately. It was a quiet morning. When I woke up and opened my eyes, it was a quiet scene. Here, I want to drown this place with my inspiration once. Then rebuild Venice in my heart. Create what I call beauty and tranquility with pictures from another school, with my pen and paper, and with my poems.
In the past, it gradually turned into dust on the big clock of the tower in the town, and then accumulated on the minute hand and the hour hand. People come and go below, and no one notices that such beauty is submerged in memory, because people here are not nostalgic, and they will pay attention to what the big meal is tonight or add some eggs to breakfast tomorrow morning. The beauty that is about to disappear here is quietly copied and pasted in my notes. I never struggle, because notes are their better place.
I walked with the morning sun on my back and the sunset on my back, and then I found a place where no one disturbed me, lay down and sorted out the poems of the day.
three
The morning at the subway station is always so lively. I sleep in the aisle, and the newspaper is my bedding. I wouldn't mind that. The dream in my heart will turn this place into a comfortable bed, plus melodious lullaby, which will take me to sleep quietly.
There is no shortage of music here. This is a place where there are more artists than beggars. Standing on my right is a violinist dressed as an English gentleman. Looking at these dense stitches, I know that this person is definitely not here to make money. But looking for dreams, maybe it will be closer to dreams here.
The melodious sound of the violin echoed in the corridor, and the tambourine and guitarist on the side also played along with this piece. People in the past stood and listened quietly. I am one, and I get more and more poetic than them. The violinist was so intoxicated that coins and bills piled up in front of him for a while. He completely ignored them and still looked intoxicated. After the performance, he picked up the coins on the ground and handed them to me. Look, you are a poet. From your eyes, there are pens and paper. I smiled knowingly. This is the first person who can see the work or career of an ordinary person like me at a glance. So I said, let's go for a drink.
So, in this city, I have a friend, a friend who can read my heart. So, we became a group. In this way, I was caught off guard by the constant miracle of city life. I gradually got used to it, and wrote down the memory of this city on the street lamp, which belongs to my memory and is also a bosom friend story.
four
Is this a tramp? I've been thinking about this problem. Who cares? Just myself. I am standing in the street, where a red street lamp directs the traffic, which reminds me of the baton that dominates my life. Life is made up of so many traffic lights, we are cars, some are Mercedes-Benz, some are BMW, and I may be the Ford Mustang of the last century, eager for freedom, and then run to my place and play my favorite songs, no matter the sun or the rainstorm.
This metaphor is also a whim. I am also a street poet, and the metaphor is just to comfort myself, because dreaming like this won't change anything. Anyway, a dream is better than no dream.
Pack my bags, I should go. I have enough memories here, and I am easily satisfied because I don't have much. Farewell to the squares, pigeons and fountains here, and of course the dreams here, comforted a tired street poet.
five
Fall to the ground and find your own direction. I am not conceited, because my dream is so different from my appearance that I have to consider such a landing search. Street poets are their own names. What is it? It is a comfort that anyone can have, but it is more important to me because I regard it as a dream. Just like now I am standing on the street, looking at pedestrians, cars, roads and the sky, and my heart is quiet.
In this way, a street poet, his paper and pen, and his poems. This is his confession.