Feb 5
I see the sorrows
of the young boy
He is eight
and already in mourning
Every morning
he wakes up to a fate
older than time
knowing the world
isn’t meant for the likes of him
For a fleeting moment
it all starts making sense—
but then he turns around
and smiles at the crowd
says the few words
he practiced last night
He's so good at
not being himself
And the further he runs
from his flesh and bone
the quicker time
passes by
Now he's thirty
and he's still running—
writing down meaningless
poetry and fiction
filling his lungs
with cigarette smoke
drowning his dreams
in cheap whiskey
accepting the loneliness
that comes from within
Cometh the pouring
of another glass
I see the sorrows
of the old man
but now
it’s too late
