Another  day  is  over.
Another  day  is  done.
This  week  went  past  so  quickly.
This  week  went  by  so  fast.
My  life  has  gone  so  quickly.
Old  men  told  me  so.
And  now  I  tell  the  young  men.
That  life  to  quickly  goes.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

The day is sated,
night's stomach thunder-rumbles
in satisfaction.

A blank notebook stares at me,
Crisp pages, neat edges and lines
A pencil sharpened until the tip ******,
placed by the side.

I carefully carve slanted letters,
bundle them into words, into sentences..
and gradually,
I switch to sketches and doodles;
weird shapes,
mindlessly drawn (mostly spirals)..
Dragging the pencil to and fro
until it becomes blunt and curved.

Pens are convenient
but pencils are better.
You can always erase the mistakes,
though they leave scars and marks.

How long I sit there, I don't know.

I go to sleep,
and an abandoned notebook,
buried under tomes,
sits quietly on the desk,
telling the stories I've written.

He's been an orphan since he was sixteen
That's when his parents kicked him out because he was so mean .
He's been living on the steps of every backdoor
What he can't get begging he will steal for

Once he was his mother's pride and joy
That was before he started drugs and there was no wonder anymore .
His skin turned hard and his heart harder still
His eyes became vacant lots lacking any will

He was living for a shot in the dark
Instead someone shot him down by the park
He died with a silly grin on his face
Don't worry there's someone who will take his place

Just another American dream disgraced
Another person slips off the face
He was dead before he hit the ground
His life ended with out a sound

And every day we say I don't care
He wasn't going to make it anywhere
All he was good at was getting high
Now he's gone and no one's asking why

His skin was as hard as a memory
He kept then in a bottle of pills he got free
No one even knows his name
Bud or Buster , it was all the same

No one even knows his name
They put him in a black bag that's the shame
He'll never be around again
And no one really cares

i'm going to change the name
of this poem throughout the day

how much so it all depends
on how fickle a mood i am in

it's inner workings will stay the same
only the title i'll rearrange

of course this will not make much sense
but what have i writ that ever did

the intriguing titles may draw a crowd
but once inside and they find out

exactly what it is i've done
and of this poems value as being none

they may light their torches and then drum me
out of town if not hellopoetry

so here goes, hang on tight
this may end up a bumpy ride