Sunday, September 6, 2015

A Poem

First I'd like to say that this poem isn't about me.

This clumsy, awkward life
Felt cool when it began.
I've been through so much strife,
I'm now a boring man.

This weariness will grow.
I'll buckle under strain
And everything I owe
Will be paid back in pain.

My father was a saint.
I squandered every gift.
And now the hope is faint.
I will not bridge that rift.

Forget these bitter lines,
So self-absorbed and grim.
Ignore the man who whines
And don't turn into him.

I'm actually a pretty cheerful person, and while my father was a great guy, he wasn't a saint.

It's a mood. A collection of gestures that I found interesting. Real life is usually too boring for poetry.

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