I woke up every morning,
I went to every class,
rode every bus home,
just so i could sit at home,
and do nothing.

I was born,
Happiness flooded my life
The oceans drowned the sorrows
Nothing special, Nothing simple
My mind was fresh clay,
Ready for moulding

Under your wings,
I could fly so high
But high was never high enough
Days became,
For counting...

And the weekends a necessity

The first three members
Of the alphabet family
Became,
For taking

I want to **** you,
Friend
Like a dark and gloomy alleyway
I could take you by surprise,

So confident that I bring to refuge
From the cold harsh and bordom
Where the warm fumes
-will intoxicate you
Into a better reality
For your life,
Means nothing...

Another Day In Paradise,
The sun still below the trees,
Morning insects in full brigade
Buzz and bite our ears and face.
Walking a staggered formation,
Our eyes every where.
No one talks, we only stare,
Grim faced and scared.

"198 days and a wake up",
Keeps running through my head.
The air always, so thick and damp,
Lays like a wet blanket on my lungs,
Every breath takes more effort.
The Corpsman assures me,
"take some aspirin" I'd be fine.
Man, I hate this ******* place!

There are moments,
When beauty can be seen,
When the population
Viewed from a distance,
Seems less threatening.

If only their sing song high pitched
speech did not grate on my ears,
Like ******* finger nails raked,
Repeatedly cross a black board,
In forward and reverse!

The kids are kind of cute,
But always with a
Hand in your pocket.
Hell, even they got to live,
It's merely their Rice Bowl
Needing a fix.

I often wonder what this place,
might be like without the war.
How different it would be.
Maybe some kind of Paradise.
What the **** are we even doing here?
It's a complete ******* mystery to me.
No one ever bothered to ask my opinion,
I'm only a lowly grunt, not entitled to one.
A ground pounder with a *******.
Counting the days 'till I ******' split.

Emerging from the trees and tall grass,
Steps down into warm water and mud.
Another ******* rice paddy!
My feet are ****, always wet and sore.
My thighs and crotch forever in rash.
****, I do so hate this place.
"Hundred ninety eight days and a wake up,
On the Freedom Bird, back to the world."
Forever a mantra in my brain.

The ******* bordom is almost as
bad as the fear of being in the ****.
Those times are fleeting, over quick.
The rest is routine, a grind to endure.
Seems endless 'cause it ******* is!

Like the sharp crack of a whip,
One snaps past my ear!
Coming then like a swarm of Bees,
Announced by that God awful,
Chatter those A-Ks put out.
*** holes and elbows dispersed,
All of us on the run, looking for cover.
They got us boxed in cross fire,
No place to run, no spot to hide.
Hunker down in the mud,
Throw out some rounds,
And kiss your *** goodbye!

Return fire as best we can,
Spray the trees where we reckoned they be.
Mortars' now, crash and splash!
Earth erupts and mud explodes.
Some guy down the line screams in pain.
Dear God I hate this ******* place!

Do you ******* hear me God?
198 days and a wake up call,
And I'm out of here!
**** I'm only 19,
I ain't no martyr and don't wanna' be!

                    END


Jungles, deserts it's all the same,
kids pulling triggers and dying in vain.
When will we ever learn?

Sorry for all the usage of "That F word" but
that is the real deal among young Marines
in the field. Profanity is their punctuation.
Part of the swagger needed to pull the trigger.

The sun still below the trees,
Morning insects in full brigade
Buzz and bite our ears and face.
Walking a staggered formation,
Our eyes every where.
No one talks, we only stare,
Grim faced and scared.

"198 days and a wake up",
Keeps running through my head.
The air always, so thick and damp,
Lays like a wet blanket on my lungs,
Every breath takes more effort.
The Corpsman assures me,
"take some aspirin" I'd be fine.
Man, I hate this ******* place!

There are moments,
When beauty can be seen,
When the population
Viewed from a distance,
Seems less threatening.

If only their sing song high pitched
speech did not grate on my ears,
Like ******* finger nails raked,
Repeatedly cross a black board,
In forward and reverse!

The kids are kind of cute,
But always with a
Hand in your pocket.
Hell, even they got to live,
It's merely their Rice Bowl
Needing a fix.

I often wonder what this place,
might be like without the war.
How different it would be.
Maybe some kind of Paradise.
What the **** are we even doing here?
It's a complete ******* mystery to me.
No one ever bothered to ask my opinion,
I'm only a lowly grunt, not entitled to one.
A ground pounder with a *******.
Counting the days 'till I ******' split.

Emerging from the trees and tall grass,
Steps down into warm water and mud.
Another ******* rice paddy!
My feet are ****, always wet and sore.
My thighs and crotch forever in rash.
****, I do so hate this place.
"Hundred ninety eight days and a wake up,
On the Freedom Bird, back to the world."
Forever a mantra in my brain.

The ******* bordom is almost as
bad as the fear of being in the ****.
Those times are fleeting, over quick.
The rest is routine, a grind to endure.
Seems endless 'cause it ******* is!

Like the sharp crack of a whip,
One snaps past my ear!
Coming then like a swarm of Bees,
Announced by that God awful,
Chatter those A-Ks put out.
*** holes and elbows dispersed,
All of us on the run, looking for cover.
They got us boxed in cross fire,
No place to run, no spot to hide.
Hunker down in the mud,
Throw out some rounds,
And kiss your *** goodbye!

Return fire as best we can,
Spray the trees where we reckoned they be.
Mortars' now, crash and splash!
Earth erupts and mud explodes.
Some guy down the line screams in pain.
Dear God I hate this ******* place!

Do you ******* hear me God?
198 days and a wake up call,
And I'm out of here!
**** I'm only 19,
I ain't no martyr and don't wanna' be!

None shall cherish what was never meant to be,
none shall challange what was and what has come.
None of my lovers have ever loved me,
and I'm in a pit of lonely I can't escape from.

I was once a more free soul, only concerned about what I was ding and where I was going, but then my paradaigm was  shifted. Luckily, I leapt out of bordom and made personality my mistress, bending her to my will and following her as she lead me through the section of my life where I needed her most.
But it all changed.
It was al taken away without a goodbye or even a subtle wave of longing. I was lonely again, stabbed in the heart, left lifeless as if I were a physically dead body.
What once took over me as a feeling of annoyedness with the public has forced a want out of me, a hunger for their attention. And I'm sad to say that that hunger has fueled many a regretted act.
vent to me, a poem to you, random word structure to those who couldn't care. They'll never cherish my words, never try to feel where I come from, and I wish that they might.
But alas, you can't capture everyone, so I stay close to home, praying that those who can understand me continue backing me with the love, the love I'll always continue to be thankful for, the love I'll always

Cherish.

The road left long and grey,bordom in a way
seemed so straight so full of sorrow
no feeling,no love nor beauty given
a road of death  ..devil driven

The sun appeared a smile did grow
my heart skipped a warmin glow
the glare shown bright a gazzling sight
warming skin a sun so bright

driving home to get there soon
fight the grey the so called gloom
streams of lights before me glow
darkness stretching through the ticking time into the night
soon be home

Like feeding birds alert for movement,
we watch the flickering images,
distracted by sounds, voices, music,
taking flight from raw deal reality.

It's the images that move our minds,
not the pain, despair, lack of care.
We crave the shock, the resus, shaking
the bordom from our souls. Life's victims
might exchange given the chance to compare.

I thought I was a poet and wanted to write
When that bordom hits you in the middle of he night
You would scribe yourself a poem until you got the feeling right
It just hits you, a barrage of words
The sound of my  voice reverbs
Words in a flurry from my head to my toes
This poet going might work out in time who knows

if you look after boredom it will grow free-flowing metaphor's
boredom needs to be watered with laugher
boredom cannot surive in a ordinary environment
bordom should only be given narcotic once a year, in a small dose
it flourishes in social settings
and its natural habitat is the dancefloor

that if I were to say, in colors gray
confusion take hold, spinning minds
can't comprehend, not black and white
what now your blurred peering eyes

energy spent, exhaustion sets in, to new
simple and plain is what you exclaim
thinking is so much work, bordom sets in
fives minutes, enough, attention wonders

straight line is the norm, the outside box
is scary, touching your comfort zone
oh, colors of gray are the base
paint over with pastels and happy hues
such rainbows are wonderous
and filled with new beginiings

An uneasy feeling of nothing to do
nothing but silence just isn't good
staring at ceiling, walls, doors
I even enjoy watching myself go dizzy
what to do
what to do
listening to my own heart beat is boring too
layin' head on my papers
I would draw I just need new ideas
making a beat out of my own breathing
Inhale Exhale
Thump thump thump
listening to cars and the train horn
watching my dreads dangle in front of my eyes
I really wish I was high
Never mind I'm getting sleepy
Listening to my own stomach grumble.... I should go eat....Nah
never mind I don't feel like cooking this time
Oh My God! Siting still is so hard, no games to play, no chores to do,
no good books to read.
Wow I'm bored
I'm writing cause I'm bored
uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhh.........
This...Is Straight....Bordom