The Invisible Man

The Invisible Man short poem

Photo by Sheffield Tiger

I’ve always needed the city more than it needed me
Wandering its prominent streets
Being nothing more than an anonymous ant,
Crawling past the lines of mechanized zombies
With equally anonymous ants driving them

More than once have I bathed in its street lights
Hoping that it would find my personality shining through
Or hunted down my reflection in its windows
Expecting that visibility would lead to the end of my anonymity
I’ve always needed the city more than it needed me

But now my point of view has finally shifted
As I wandered the streets of the city I hold so dear
Finding that my need to be needed has changed

Finally I have discovered that the invisible man is happy
He is never told to go away
He keeps on wandering, amongst his fellow ants
Under the city’s street lights, reflected by its windows
Not feeling the need to be needed
Not feeling the need
Not feeling

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Profile photo of Oscar Mann

Oscar Mann

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
Between poetic and pathetic. Missing the point in an aesthetic manner. Poetry. Pastiche.
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of

Radio Man

Radio Man short poem

Back in the Summer of eighty five thank God I was still alive music was filling the streets as I chilled by the strip here’s the trip many girls were dressed with flames both were not ashamed the innocence of

Tears Of Man

Tears Of Man short poem

Tears of Man You have the right to remain silent. Do you make the choice or remain violent? Do you evolve and become more civilized? Or do you choose to stay belligerent? You choose to be healthy, like you are

Old Man Sitting

Old Man Sitting short poem

The bones are brittle as are the thoughts they crumble events of yesterdays that never happened things that happened not remembered today becomes another time faces and events mingle become a crazy quilt He sits and stares unaware of a

He Is The Man That

He Is The Man That long poem

Who said that dawn doesn’t know him? Yes … Who has said that? He is secreting night when the sunset flows to poem end ; the flute, which surrendered stealthily to the day song, it runs away from the maze

The Man

The Man long poem

The pressure in his head at times was unbearable like a vice clamped around his forehead having it twisted a 1/4 –turn at a time and when he finally thinks it can’t get anymore painful then bad timing comes around