Apr 2017
National WWII museum,
New Orleans,
summer.
Somehow
we have ended up here.
1,387 miles from home.
Here,
where war is so close
yet so far away.
I look at this boy
and for a moment
I swear his smile looks just like v-day.
And his laugh sounds like peace.
And when he calls my name through this crowd,
It feels just like a homecoming.
New Orleans,
summer.
Somehow
we have ended up here.
1,387 miles from home.
Here,
where war is so close
yet so far away.
I look at this boy
and for a moment
I swear his smile looks just like v-day.
And his laugh sounds like peace.
And when he calls my name through this crowd,
It feels just like a homecoming.
I didn't intend to not post any poems these last two months.
Back in February, I made a promise to myself to write a little bit every day (even if it's terrible). And surprisingly, only two-and-halfish poems came out of it. I'm been writing a novel that may never be published, but I write anyway. Knowing that writing shouldn't be about publication, even though it would be nice. So, while I brush up those two-and-a-halfish poems, here's a short little something that I wrote in the gift shop at the National World War II museum about a very innocent and hopeful crush.
Back in February, I made a promise to myself to write a little bit every day (even if it's terrible). And surprisingly, only two-and-halfish poems came out of it. I'm been writing a novel that may never be published, but I write anyway. Knowing that writing shouldn't be about publication, even though it would be nice. So, while I brush up those two-and-a-halfish poems, here's a short little something that I wrote in the gift shop at the National World War II museum about a very innocent and hopeful crush.
