for years i thought i knew myself
but the wind has blown me astray.
with tears and scars i pleaded in vain...
but the current of time has driven me too far away.

i look back but not a patch of land.
beyond the water was a fading ship
whose waving flag whispered farewell…
and the dying light and frigid sea cast me further and further still.

these solemn nights drag on without pity.
i was alone, adrift in blue that blinded;
carried some place i knew not where…
who knew where i was headed (but deep and dark despair (?))

to hell with it! I leave it to the wrath of the gods--
i am blind to my kismet, like a sailor in foggy seas.
the first patch of land i find--i couldn’t care more
what it was! I just need to find myself (a place where i’d be me).

A weeping soul asleep in bed— a teenage boy in dreary lament,
Seeks solace in riches dreamt. To live overseas in superfluous luxury,
Is all the boy knows he must have as a have-not. His heart, bought by
Awry thoughts and prospects, yearns for golden years and silver days.

Yet he knows not the life of the rich man; a life of misery and pain,
The king, who sits on his throne, a lonely soul known by all men—
An irony of knowing all men but lonely nonetheless. A glut of gold
buys but bliss and love, for we miss and love what we have not.

Hence all men are hypocrites; wishing riches in their days of youth
And wishing youth in their golden years. The young ask the old why
They are not happy, and vise versa. Neither understand their reasons,
And men will always long for selves whom they are not. Satisfaction—
Or rather disillusionment; always there, yet never met.

Ephemeral melodies emanate from my dear car radio—
songs too cliche that I despise them.
I only hear today’s charlatans
and their monotonous redundancy of new yet familiar beats.
But there is hope...
The eternal relics that elate my soul, having lacked innuendos—
tunes of back-in-the-day entice me
As I, a desperate old soul, turn the **** in angst,
in search of stations bygone.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I’ve come to think about it; at times it may seem blatant—
why it’s a fact, but indeed we were all children once...
Children: then the innocent; but with time flew the pleasant
gems of the past. I could no longer recall when ‘twas.

Yet somehow the distinction presents itself quite clearly.
All are born without prejudices; they grow to learn
them their own. If anything, sentiments are born merely
from those around us, ‘til one day they can’t be unearned.

Thus I say, when men are born they are without character:
a racist man is not born but is made; likewise, a gentleman
is forged from the furnaces of virtue and integrity. Might there
be some way we can just try—to be children again?

We were all children once… it seems we forget this;
whence comes our innocence, is but a bygone fantasy.

Seconds fall, dripping one after the other in an unbroken eternity.
Slowly as they accumulate, the past becomes a formidable mass of years,
Before which we stand, unintent of heeding the whispers of such a behemoth.
Yet in retrospect, we shed tears and laugh greatly at the moments bygone,
Reliving memories as if they were happening, only to realize we are trapped—
Forever destined to never reconcile with the past. A tragedy,
And yet an inevitable truth which limits the resent of all men.

And yet again I stare blankly at the screen
as the cursor blinks, waiting for my fingers
to speak my mind's thoughts. Perhaps within
the night's sluggish hours I will find the words.

A phrase—but of meagre stature and stance,
of small voice and weak impression. Alas,
I revert the page, blank once again, empty
and without. Time drags on without pity.

The words have evaded me for far too long.
I have searched in vain for what to say,
all attempts futile thus far, with wrong
turns and countless detours along the way.

Maybe my mind wishes not to express itself
without my knowing, or maybe these
monotonous nights have reduced my
poetic capability close to none.

Either way, an hour past midnight is never
the perfect time to write a poem of any sort.