Poems To Strangers [ Bo Burnham ]

1- Something That Feels Like Home.

-CYRO POV-

The crackling of my cigarette as I inhale was the only sound within a mile radius besides the crickets and the cars passing by on a lonely highway and maybe a slight rustling of the trees. That's why I like this place, it's quiet it's alone in one of the most crowded states in the U.S, California. Every time I stand outside of Cafe Utopia I get this... funny feeling. This feeling of peace. I still remember how I found this place.

It has to have been a horrible night to be driving, I remember ash hitting my windshield from a near by forest fire. People were scared that day it was one of the worst days for air pollution in L.A. I drove and I drove and I drove regardless, avoiding the radio that was advising me to go home and seek shelter. I had just come from my house and that's what had me in the mood to drive anyways. I was driving away from the aches and the pains of watching something that was already broken, shatter, that being my family. I swore I'd get out of this place, that I'd do better than all of them but as the clock of life continues to tick and one year dances by at a time all I can do is sit paralyzed and watch the months go by. I promised I'd do better and be better when I was 18. I'm 21 now, and not much has changed.

To continue the story though— As I drove and drove I realized very quickly,  I didn't know where I was driving to. Apart of me was scared at that but apart of me wanted to just keep going so I did. I drove and I drove and I drove till I hit the line leading into the rural outskirts of L.A if I went any farther I'd be in Glendale which my dad always taught me was a sundown town. "You got a car. I'm very proud... but there's something you need to promise me. Never ever enter Glendale at night. I don't even want you in Pasadena after sundown. Black folks aren't welcome there after sundown, I'm not playing around with you now girl..  now don't you ever take your ass down there past sundown. Do you hear me? Listen to me. People still get hanged Cyro. I know it's 2019 but people still get hanged." His voice still echos through my head. That was two years ago. I really miss him now, I wish he didn't live so far away.
I didn't always listen to what my dad said but instinctually I took a sharp left turn, I kept driving kept driving kept driving, until I was at the perimeter of Arcadia. That's when I saw a neon pink sign written in some futuristic space font.'Utopia' it said. "I could use one of those right now." I remember chuckling to myself, so for the hell of it I pulled in and parked. It was the best decision I think I've made in a long time.

I was pulled out of my thoughts by the sound of a bell jingling it was the one on the door to the cafe. The door to Utopia swung open and a girl with bright pink hair in uniform exits, walking over to her car before stopping dead in her tracks. I can hear her sniff the air like a police dog searching for drugs before she turns around. "Can I bum one?" She says eyeing the cigarette in my hand.
I motion her over to me and she walks up slowly she seems a little scared. Definitely a suburban girl probably lives in Arcadia. I can tell by the uncomfortable look on her face. We can both tell we're from different sides of town. I reach into my backpack and pull out the whole pack and I hand it to her, she proceeds to take one out and hand it back and I slide it back into my backpack.  "Here you can take the one I'm smoking right now too I honestly don't even know why I smoke these things. I hate them. Just take it okay? Here." I say handing her the half of cigarette that I had pinned in the corner of my mouth. "Really? Thanks dude!" She rejoiced. I nodded before spinning around on my foot and entering the cafe.

Utopia smelt like how I think home is supposed to. You could smell the hardwood floors, the smell of the vacuumed rugs. The couches smelt like fresh linen and every now and then you'd smell soup, or coffee or cookies. That's how they made home seem in all the movies. 
I walked over to my usual seat in the back away from the counter and most of the other seats. No one really comes here—honestly not sure how this place is in business still cuz I have came here everyday for a year and there might be maybe one other person that pops in and it's usually a traveler. On the rare occasion someone does come here though they usually prefer the fancy more renovated seating area than the one in the back of the room. For some reason they just have this old velvet love seat couch here, and of course I was instantly attracted toward it the design seems old the fabric is frayed around the edges.

I didn't have enough money to order something today so sadly I'm just gonna have to veg out on my laptop without my matcha latte today. I take my laptop out of my old backpack and open it expecting the screen to light up but it doesn't? "Fuck fuck fuck" I say to myself rummaging through my bag but to my dismay no laptop charger is insight. Kyla must have taken it when I was sleeping last night. My stupid fucking little sister who doesn't know how to ask permission before touching things. "Damnit." I say to myself, "can I get you anything— sorry is this a bad time?" The staff ask. I notice the pen and note pad he had in his hand and a light bulb appeared above my head. I look back in bag and realize I still have my old note books. I've been meaning to get back around to writing anyways. "No food or anything but—do you happen to have any more pens?" I ask. "Yes totally! Here have mine there's plenty more in back. Let us know if you need anything Cyro!" The employee chirps before walking away. All the staff here know my name but sadly I haven't really learned theres, makes me feel like an asshole but I mean I didn't ask them to learn mine.

What do I even write about? When I was in highschool I never ran out of ideas. I loved the concept of rain and used to add it to every single poem I had. It doesn't rain much in California though so now writing about it makes me feel kind of...hollow. Maybe if I was less of a pessimist it would make me feel anticipation, hope, desire, but I haven't felt those things in a long time. So what... do I write about. My shit mom? My shit step dad and his stupid shitty abusive son? My alcoholic brother? Or maybe my little sister who can't tell her heart and her head from one another. Always getting herself into something I have to pull her out of with not one bit of appreciation in return? Or should I write about my job, and how they turn bright minds into cogs in the machine. What? Should I write about revolutionizing? All of these ideas seem over done, over thought. I don't wanna write about those things not here in the place that I like most. I wanna write about something that feels good. Something that feels like home. Wait, that's it.

What is home?
Some will say it is a house.
Some will say it is someone else.
Some will say it is their heart.
But what makes those things a home?
To me, home is laughter.
The type of laughter where when you start.
You'll don't know if you'll ever stop.
The type that punches.
Against the pit of your stomach.
Reminding you that pain.
isn't always your enemy.
But a friend, that takes the numbness away.
Just for a few seconds
To remind you, that you can still feel something.
-C

-NARRATORS POV-

Cyro picks the pencil up from the paper leaving the trance they had just entered. And she re read the poem, and read it again and they read it again and read it again until she hated it. An aggravated Cyro huffs and puffs. Tearing it out of their note book, and crumbling it up before starting again. Too lazy to get up and go to the trash and too nervous to look like a manic slob she fiddles with the ripped piece of paper before subconsciously tucking it between the cushions as she tries her hardest to focus on her next poem.
Cyro's mind was nothing completely blank, and eventually she picks up her phone abandoning the notebook and pencil before inevitably leaving Utopia at the time she always does. 1am.