"boomer" poems
I’m sick of hearing my life’s a haiku.
I’m into magic, love, and other sorts of things that are typically voodoo.
I’m half ***** from a half assed absent African baby boomer brat.
I’m half white trash.
Here’s a well formed of dried tears turned into something to sooth my canine teeth.
It tastes like Moonshine.
I can’t swim anymore, so I’m here drowning in a concrete pool.
Always, I look for the hell in you.
I sharpen my boot knife for ****** assault protection.
The first swipes for the plus 200,000 in counting.
The seconds for the 66 percent underreported.
The lasts for me,
the 29 percent victims aged 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, and 12.
We have a higher rate of risking everything.
For depression x3.
For committing suicide x4.
For post traumatic stress disorder x6.
For alcohol abuse x13.
For drug abuse x26.
You all think I’m crazy,
I’m not.
I sometimes get called
stupid, ugly, ***** and thot.
I’m in pain, in sorrow.
I can’t help it.
He did it.
No one can undo it.
What do we do about it?
I wont scream, I won't cry.
I’ll ask how he’s doing with glitter and tears in the corner of my eye.
And after he's done molesting me,
"Want to go grab some coffee or tea?"
Personally, I like the cafe down the street.
They sell good brunch with amazing croissants.
And after this is over,
I’d ask him how it was while he turned me over.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
Muelle de Binondo Street,
Barangay San Nicolas,
Old Manila.
My dad's fate
Will always be muddled
With nostalgia:
The mid-afternoon
Traffic of fruit vendors,
The toothless strains
Of my grandfather's voice,
Bouncing off
The warehouse walls
Like folding cardboard,
The ceramic gallops of horse-
Drawn kalesas taking him
From school to
My grandfather's offices,
Every day and back,
Up and down
The cardboard box river
To Tondo. There, he hurriedly
Buys ten
Asado buns
From a stall across the
Street from their
School - a voracious
Schoolboy
Forever late for class, forever
Putting on basketball jerseys
Too wide for him,
Basketball shorts too
Short; body
Always too gangly,
Too long-limbed, wide eyed
And fleet footed
For his dreams to catch.
He once could dunk.
He is still a baby boomer -
Scared of firecrackers,
Weird penchant
For popped collar shirts,
Pointed shoes, and
Sequins - he, was an avid
Lover of stars - his old
Dust-strewn bed posts
Giving way, I imagine,
To iron bars caging
The luminous starry night,
Floating high above
The sewage
And the freight trucks
That weigh him so.
They sang to him.
In the tune of
My mother's voice -
The only album
He ever possessed.
Song set from
His favorite band.
"Apo Hiking Society."
His favorite word,
Was "leap."
A disciple
Of MJ, Dr. J,
And Magic,
Samboy, and Jawo,
Icarus on hardwood
And leaping
From the free throw line.
"Son," he once told me,
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."
He was always afraid of heights.
It wasn't until 41 that
We made him ride a roller-coaster,
That he had even seen a roller-coaster.
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."
I think my favorite
Memory of my dad
Is still him wringing my fingers
At Space Mountain with
Eyes so tightly shut
That we forgot
Our fears,
And screamed instead:
So.
This,
Is how the stars look like
When unbolted
By folding cardboard,
And iron bars.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
There is ***** for sale and wombs for rent
For same *** couples it’s cash well spent.
While heterosexuals breed their own
Gay couples, as yet, cannot clone.
A lesbian couple who had the itch
is suing their ***** bank for “bait and switch”.
They wanted a Caucasian baby
and had requested ***** from vial “380”.
The donor of that ***** was white,
Handsome, smart, just “not their type”
They were given another’s ***** instead
And an interracial child was bred.
It seems they were given vial “330”
The vials, it seems, were marked unclearly.
An honest mistake by a nearsighted boomer?-
or one with a twisted sense of humor?
A civil suit will go to trial
seeking damages for a mixed race child.
If their motion to dismiss should meet denial
The “bank” will suffer premature withdrawal.
In which event bankruptcy looms
For the bank that supplies the ***** for wombs.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
For every aging boomer
there are one or two they've known:
Heroes of the battlefield
Who never made it home.
Some classmate who was butchered
in a fire fight in “Nam.
A sibling who had perished
in the standoff at Khe Sanh.
Perhaps the Tet offensive
left some friend's blood spilled and spent.
Politicians speak of glory-
It’s the grunts who pay the rent
From the walls of Hue to Can Ranh Bay
from Tonkin to Saigon.
there is a wall in Washington
with their names inscribed thereon.
The lucky ones who did come home
recall the name and face
of some heroic eighteen year old
who perished in their place.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
For every aging boomer
There are one or two they've known:
Heroes of the battlefield
Who never made it home.
Some classmate who was butchered
in a fire fight in “Nam.
A sibling who had perished
in the standoff at Khe Sanh.
Perhaps the Tet offensive
left some friend's blood spilled and spent.
Politicians speak of glory-
It’s the grunts who pay the rent
From the walls of Hue to Cam ranh Bay
from Tonkin to Saigon.
there is a wall in Washington
with their names inscribed thereon.
The lucky ones who did come home
Recall the name and face
of some heroic eighteen year old
who perished in their place.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
My name is Boomer and I'm a Beagle
Sometimes I'm clumsy, sometimes I'm regal...
I like to run, sniff, eat, and play.
I have lots of energy to do this all day..
We have great sniffers because we are hounds.
We also can make a few different sounds...
Pointed to the sky is our tail.
Hoisted straight up just like a sail..
The white on the end, is called a flag.
When not standing up, its going to wag...
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
Quietly...
a new future
races past my attention.
As thin as,
a liberals funding
chased by an old
and toothless past.
Slipping changes by...
in bite sized pieces
now so regularly
that some pass ...
barely tasted....
almost inhaled.
Tides of modern history
are beating
rhythmically
on ugly
worn out barriers
affecting all,
both near and far
As bright and untouchable
as the new moon.
The looming certainty of...
what now seems
inevitable.
Lingers...
not quite accepting
it's progression
and now is both...
dragging it's feet...
and clumsily
rushing over
what's left of
ancient weights...
that lay so heavy...
so long....'
Equality and Justice
are hummed to
and called forth...
to not simply usher in
a few changes...
but navigate the floodgates
of what our world
now dare to dream of...
The last of the Boomer's
are having their say
and the idealistic. psychedelic,
poets and builders
dream through a "stoney" mist
and contemplate
next season's crops
and the affect they may have
on moral turpitude.
Finally.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
you say It’s not all the same
and i’m paralyzed
*What. I want to fix it"
but there is no kicking
because broken things don’t
move so easily. anymore.
circular arguments
(not to be confused with
logic) wrap fishing line around
my fetal knees and
What is your bullet/
flaccid arrow/
boomer-anger.
and either I’m diabetic or
your insecurity ankle bracelet
tightens.
and the key
The key.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 9:28 AM UTC
Us hippies and straights
from the baby boomer generation
grew up with two great television myths
which determined how
we turned out
and they are
"The Wizard Of Oz"
and
"Peter Pan"
and every year
as we grew up
they were the TV events
on Sunday night
so as we got older
we went to Oz
like on LSD and stuff
and realized
that we wanted to go back
to Kansas
but like Peter Pan
we didn't want to grow up
so we didn't
so here am I,
an old baby boomer,
back at his childhood home
in Kansas, Michigan
and I still refuse to grow up.
I wish I could fly.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 5:06 PM UTC
Words, words, words, but powerful,
they dig deep into a boy's mind
and become the standard he comes
to measure himself by, who he is,
who he must be, must live up to.
Real men never cry. Real men never cry.
Never, ever hit a girl no matter what.
Bullies are all ****** little cowards.
Never back down. Never back down.
Always demand the most of yourself.
Never blame anyone else if you fail.
Never back down. Never back down.
Play fair but play to win.
Show no mercy, take no prisoners,
have no regrets, never complain.
Never back down. Never back down.
Be a man. Be a man. Be a man. Be a man.
Real men never cry. Real men never cry.
Pain makes you stronger. Life's not fair.
Don't be a baby. Stop acting like a girl.
Be a man. Be a man. Be a man. Be a man.
**** it up. It doesn't hurt. Be tough.
Nice guys finish last. Shed no tears.
A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
Be a man. Be a man. Be a man. Be a man.
Real men never cry. Real men never cry.
We believed deeply in all this ****
and when the time came, took it to war.
Very little made it back to the world.
~mce
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 7:21 PM UTC
We are a generation,
Indeed, a nation,
Raised upon foreign warring.
Scapegoat aggravation.
Bushes and *****
Clamoring for horror and hoarding.
Conspiring against a population,
I watch through youthful aging.
With my childlike eyes, I see
The target they're blaming:
Afghan families having more
in common with me,
Working class American,
Than those transparent heirs
With the world's wealth and arrogance,
Ordering for the villagers' obliteration
Through boys from our nation.
We are a generation raised
On media sensation
Of militarized devastation;
Animal exploitation;
Technological manifestations
Providing privacy infiltration.
Material attainments;
Mental frustrations;
Fiat debt enslavement;
A nation entranced by
Senseless parading.
Tempting decadence and
Announcements with no evidence.
The September bounty of edifice
That fell with no hesitance
Still echo its unfounded,
Preemptive pretenses.
This murderous reign;
this senseless parade;
Advertisement cyclical
in their game of charades;
Dog on a chain;
Famine causing no pain.
Permissible opinions
To be solely maintained.
The damage, the waste,
The heinous race and class chase.
Oppression remains thoughtlessly dangerous,
As moral responsibility brings no attainments.
Chowing down on maimed millions
Bellowing from enslavement.
Fortunately, elder,
Rothschild, Rockefeller, or
Those above them whom
Remain blackened, faceless:
Resistance shall come
From all places, all ages.
Such as this generation of mine
Inheriting increasing complications,
With the type of America
You wish to keep in rotation.
I'll carry the flag containing
Your mistakes as a symbol,
To remind those behind me
What not to rekindle.
To the Boomer who stews
In your white collar suit,
Still refusing to shake
Your destructive pursuit,
Still asking me to lick
Off authority's boot:
Growing up in this nation,
With childhood innocence,
I grew increasingly aware
Of the land of such ignorance.
I had such thoughts since
Early adolescence,
I was not blind to larger lessons.
Only since supported by
Actual, factual supported confessions.
To the Boomer tied to his convictions,
Now will you see-
That isn't going to work
For us or for me.
I'll bring to this world
Whatever I please.
Which so happens to be
Truth, justice, and peace.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
Petri dish children run with punctured neon green veins
Raised in focus groups with the touch of a hungry CEO
Who will sell your youth for another car to drive
Built from the dust of a baby boomer cabbage patch
Poked and prodded by the media of a society flamed with consumerism
Where your loosely draped skeleton frame has no more weight than the quarters you tuck in your pockets at weigh ins
Sunken eyes and sideways grins
Little girls are growing up to kiss the bad boys
Tequila soaked, beautiful kisses
Where your idol is a crack ***** beauty queen
Where your every fatal flaw has a rememdy and a price tag
A generation sick with drinks
Plagued by impulse and energy pulsing in tides
With ****** laughs and magnetic orbits
What ever happened to the petri dish children
Built for beauty and style, but left broken and stunning
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
Baby boomer farmers tailgating Carolina red apples ...
Engaged in whittling , rocking beside a powder blue Dodge pickup ..
Mother hens in white aprons selling cocoanut cakes and peanut brittle .
Bluegrass pickers drawing a small crowd , children feasting on corn dogs
with Rock candy tucked away in their shirts ...
Funnel cake fragrance on joyous September nights ...
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
Those Lips
I was sitting in a booth at Boomer's coffee shop,
it was two a.m. And I was ready to drop,
working my *** off, Just trying to get ahead,
but going in circles, it's going to my head
sitting here sipping a cup of Cafe' LaWut,
pulling drags off a stale cigarette ****
in walks this redhead, long legs and all,
set me straight up, hit my head on the wall
long red hair all the way down her back,
near 6 foot tall, with quite a stack,
legs from the bottom, all the way to the top,
could feel my bottom jaw start to drop
looking like a dork couldn't help but stare,
think to myself, she's not wearing underwear.
bright green eyes that sparkled like stars,
and here I am looking, like a creature from Mars
but she looked my way, gave a wink and a smile,
she must be crazy, or been drinking a while,
her cute pug nose fit her face just right,
I could look at her for the rest of the night
the thing I noticed most out of all this charm,
long hair, long legs, a smile so warm,
killer eyes, perfect teeth and shapely hips
I really had this urge to kiss those lips.
Gomer LePoet...
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 9:10 PM UTC
Poems are born and given
names like people are don't they?
vested with special brainy wings right? then ejected!
as if birthing slides
help push them through
a cyber time machine
computerized world
poems seem to travel
as in rockets to space
yes that fast!!
Others ballooned by air
in baskets moved slowlier
or in simple rainbow sorted
balloon batches and
then gone with the wind!
inflated by helium air
initials inscribed on each
from the parent poet or poetess
"A lot more happens
to poems"
Lucky few reposted by the
holy sages of H.P
a few more seem air lifted in
an eye blink secluded in mysterious arenas
Jack in the box boxes!
private uncirculated rooms
there reveared?
All poems in my world
seem firstly inspected by
the same compassionate
doctor, few masked Knights
powerful mystery kings
birds of song, purring cats
even angry dogs all sorts
same crafty nurses seem
to eagerly revise
their parchment scrolls
and from there nothing
is heard of these
baby boomer poems
or if ever are read by others again who can tell? It's unclear unless a fee is paid
its like having children
really isnt't it?
that must be sent away as in
time machine missions once named treasured revised
adored then freedoms grant'd
some poems will make it explored reapearing loved reposted moving priceless!
other poems perish
by green with envy
other muses hubbering
curiously around
lizards wizards snakes
all sorts.
Poems seem to travel
dead silent through
a cyber mirror
Twilight Zone
~~~~~~~~
By:Karijinbba.
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 11:28 AM UTC
Baby boomer that is me..
I was born in the shade, of a tree..
On a little farm as cute as can be..
This was my first home for my litter mates and me.
4 brothers and sisters plus me equals 9.
I'm lucky to have this, family of mine.
Mom and dad are beagle dogs too..
Being on the farm, was like living at a zoo..
Shouts the rooster.. **** a doodle dooo.
Waking the farm before the early morning dew
As the morning sun begins to rise..
Clouds of many shapes fill the skies...
One little two little three little goats
On the little pond the duck family floats..
4 little 5 little 6 little pigs..
They watch their momma as she digs..
My sisters and brothers we get to roll and play...
Mom will teach us, the safest way...
We nibble each other's neck, and nose.
Sometimes we bite our tails, and toes..
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
In my realm, any tale worth telling tells itself, backwards…
this is part three under reproof inspection,
we have tools some of us imagined,
perhaps with prodding from what prodded
Heinlein, his version of the Sixties, seen from his fifties;
differs in tech to stretch the realm of possible,
Artist's intuition that women's intuition was a thing
by 1961, the year of the twist,
if I recall Junior High, and who doesn't, eh, as seen on TV.
We were there.
There were those books, You were there at the battle for Bataan
We were there books, 36, a kind of boomer canon
in the southwest, some of us had grands who rode those trails.
But the one I imagine I remembered reading,
We were there at the battle for Bataan,
that can be imagined as a ghost from the cemetery
in Kingman, Arizona, on the actual road
alluded to in rites of passage,
all roads lead
from the middle of nowhere, there's no destination known.
Up on the point,
overlooking my green valley,
if I am an honest man, and I believe I am,
sharp as a tack,
tacky as a fly strip in a butcher shop,
sticky in that ai ai ai madja look gleam meme,
flash of white,
no light, brigh'ness reflected from raven's wings, sure
that is what Castaneda saw, no wu wu needed,
once the plant impresses your kindness,
adsorb absorb soak seep, sniff
wonder, if we may imagine
and we do not, we are as the being who may read and does not.
Or the reader who may write and wishes to be
known for the worth of the lines in threaded time through
changing times, drastic fantastic changes in time
thinking medium
thick syrupy, thicker, honey, honey, how could such excess be?
the proverb, pre installed, tic
Hast thou found honey?
Eat so much as is sufficient for thee.
see
prophecy saying the child shall shall, not will, shall
eat milk and honey until it can, not may, can
sense the fine-ness of the line
the veil, between useful for imaginary things,
how fine the film discerned, imagine that
scratched
with this
so fine a line, that nothing is a thought, with nullness
nought, not infinite, pre-
punctuality, never ceases to happen and now remains, ever.
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 3:30 PM UTC
At work the boss shot her mouth off with her baby boomer thoughts
I missed the rainbow after the thunderstorm and what was left were fallen trees
Slipped on a banana on the way to the train that got me late
I went home for the night and I lit up the sky
What was I mad about?
People singing at the top of their lungs on the street
Co-workers ask me questions I don’t know the answers to
I prefer not to do what you ask me to
Haunted by a ghost of someone dead from a position I now hold
What do I do with these curses coming after me?
The moon eclipses as the wolves come out for the night
Spitting in my eye while they’re snarling
Fell in a flood stepping on the wrong sidewalk
I headed home and lit up a fire
What was I mad about?
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Mostly these days I enter a room, polka dot populated by folks with too much perfume, or none at all and presuppositions and a cold drink lingering near them.
I carry a shadowy painting with me, but it’s unfinished. It’s meticulously cared for and not yet ready to receive merit, let alone garner attention or criticism of ubiquity.
Mostly these days I find myself troubled walking into these galleries laden with baby boomer critical gazes, though some understand in a competent comparative fashion and look forward to seeing the end result. The saturation, and the color spectrum.
Mostly these days I wander into a tavern with a short story in my arms. It’s falsehood glaring, but with truth inside the lie. It is also unfinished. And yes it’s five years in the making, and everyone gawks, and watches carefully over glassware beaded with condensation, fury during October, the lights come down a bit, and I feel better. Mostly.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC
A Baby-Boomer walks so freely through the town
he pays no mind to those suffering around
“Why don’t poor people just get jobs,”
he asks himself,
“And stop bellyaching?
And women need to shut their mouths and stop complaining
the wage gap is a fallacy
they invented to work less.
trust me I am a man who would understand the oppressed,
a man who has always been gainfully employed,
in fact if you ask me I am simply annoyed
that others dare to call me privileged
just because I can afford more than they do
(well that and the fact that because of my face
I can be sure that I will not be chased
by the police unrightfully
or a strange man most frighteningly).”
He walks alone in the darks of night
and yet his bones do not creak with fright
for he knows the world respects his white skin,
his wife, and the money he keeps only for him.
On his wall hangs a college degree
he got from a school in 1983
“I don’t understand why the millennials are such whiners
pull yourself up by your bootstraps while you’re still minors,
yes we ruined the economy, but it’s not that hard
if you just stop focussing on being so avant-garde
and get a job, who do you think you are?
Just kids trying their best to be what they are?
Disgusting excuse,
sell your soul to businesses,
it’s what Reagan would do.”
As he puts his money to bed at night
in the house he bought when the market was still alright
he wonders why kids these days
seem so tired and hungry for praise.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
Don't just don't stand too close,
what do you figure man!
Don't you know there is a pandemic!
I guess as far as you are concerned Big Government
will help you, don't you know, they will or will not.
Banking the house for winter
so the pipes don't freeze.
North, North America is o so cold
come winter... and the slush and the salt
ruining your car and your clothes.
I'd like a formidable climate,
a place to hang my hat.
Some place so awesome
you just want to plant your roots.
Oct 30, 2021
Oct 30, 2021 at 7:06 PM UTC
Boomer was born, on a farm, from the same mom and dad..
Tho his markings, were different, then what the other siblings had..
He would see his reflection, in the pond on the farm..
The other animals would tease, tho meaning no harm..
The words he would hear were quite clear,
and would attach deep in his soul..
As time went on, he would keep to himself, and would search for his roll..
He would hunt for answers, with each passing day..
And observe mother nature, and what she had to say..
The wind would howl, and sometimes growl, and sometimes barely blow..
The river would rage, and and be real deep, and often barely flow..
The trees would whistle and do a dance, to their own private song..
The grass would bend to and fro, as if to join along..
His momma told him with love in her eyes, it's good to be different and true..
The reason they tease, is quite clear, there is only one you..
So enjoy your life, be real strong, and do what puppies do...
And if you're scared or alone, remember the words,
I Love You....
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
He went from stone to telling me he loves me in his sleep
And I couldn't look into his eyes until recently because it meant that I had to accept my own mortality
Not because he's going to **** me
But because I'll never truly know what's on the other side
They're blue and that's all I know and it keeps me starving and satisfied and scared and safe
He's my safe space. The kind that ****** off our baby boomer parents
He'll call you by your preferred pronouns. He'll celebrate your womanhood. He is the painting session that's offered instead of the midterm exam
My only worry with him is that my hair is frizzy and my lipstick is faded
I don't even worry about his roommate hating me when I visit because of our sighing and the bed squeaking
I'm at a place in my life where I wonder how high I can go at this point but if he is my anchor, the view is just fine
If he is my anchor, I'm not drowning at all
If he is my anchor, he'll lift me higher because he likes that I'm tall
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
The humor flies right over heads,
Like leaves off trees much too overgrown.
Quick to shoot and stab in darkness,
Naked kitchen table manners,
Plastic flaccid people actors,
Vacant star shaped locket
Picture frames a blackmail recipient.
Forget your names for heavens sake.
Preface to my new face in tastelessness,
Fragrant little boomer baby.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
Regret nothing
and be grateful for what you are
and what you have
whether it is good or bad
and know that wealth
is not possession but enjoyment
so be grateful for the people
throughout your life that made you happy
especially the ones who made
your soul blossom
as we can learn much from those
who have gone before us.
Don't be afraid to step off
of the accepted path
and head off in your own direction
if your heart tells you
that it is the right way to go
and always believe that
you will succeed at whatever you do
and wherever you go
because you never know
how strong you are
until being strong is the only choice
that you have.
Don't worry about whether
your beautiful or you are ugly
because by the time that we are eighty
we will all look the same
even after playing our little game
so just hang in there
and everything will be all right
and try to get some sleep
at night.
As we go through life
we learn that they can't teach you
everything that you need to know in School
like teaching you how love somebody
with all that you have
nor can they teach you
how to be famous
and they can't teach you
how to be rich or how to be poor
and most of the time
they will just show you the door
becasuse they will never
teach you how to walk away
from someone
that you loved and who
you thought was
that someone who was sent to you
from above.
They don't teach you
what to say to someone who is dying
or teach you how to stop crying
as you watch them leave
or how to deal with
someone's continuous
lying .
I've done it all starting
with answering the call
for my Country in a meaningless war
that left me with only
trying to find a door
that would lead me out
of my pain and I've been rich
and I've been poor and
all of the dead space in between
and so much I have seen
that I will never forget
and I am still trying to find that door
to my happiness.
Don't judge me if you don't
know a thing about my wants and needs
or I will drop you to your knees
because I have been knocked down
so many times and left for dead
by those who are not very well read
but I keep getting back up
because that is me
and what I do better than anything
so it would seem.
On the down side of this wild ride
of the boomer generation
I try to finish out this ride
as I watch so many dropping
by the wayside but so many are still
waiting to just turn the page
with no rage.
Never regret anything
that made you smile even if
it only lasted for a very short while
and try to remember that
your happiness is all up
to you.
While humanity sleeps in the night
all I do is write
and my words and my tears
have flooded Valley's without
a single solitary sound
but for me sometimes the Sun shines
but the clouds always seem to return
so I guess I'll just never learn
but I do know that when knowledge
speaks wisdom listens. Jon York 2012
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 5:22 AM UTC