Underneath

So many different stories, too many different faces.
Why can't we be ownselfs?

The train roars on by sending a gust of wind through my clothes.
We entered, the train had a faint ting of mustiness
Our bodies swayed with the movement of the train.

A man sits in the corner wearing a tracksuit blinded by his loud music.
A woman sits in the corner her phone adhered to her face.
An elderly man sits next to a window, engrossed in reading his newspaper.

The train roars pass a huge fire engulfing a home.
A family stand outside hopeless
watching all their memories fall down the drain.

Not a single person notices.
Oblivious.
Expect one individual.

A man sat on the aisle, he wore all black.
He has a black nike hat with a white check mark.
He looked to be Latino.
His eyebrows were freshly threaded.
This beard was had a crisp and clean cut.
So effortlessly like a undercover piano player.
He lifted his hands and followed the beat of his music.

So many different stories. We are only what we show to people.

I wonder if the women with her phone glued to her face, is extremely shy.
She resorts to her phone when she feels uncomfortable.
But inside her head, inside her home, she is outgoing, she is a comedian.

I wonder if the elderly man reading his newspaper is contemplating his next victim.
When he gets home, he wonders why he can't feel love,sadness or anger.

No no no, that can't be.
Except you never know who people are behind closed doors.