"damndest" poems
A man who:
Takes pictures of himself
Everyday
Won’t have the time for you
A man who:
Leaves love notes on
Napkins
Underneath your coffee cup
Will love you when
You have nothing
A man who:
Declares he’s a great father
For all to see
Really
Truly
Isn’t
A man who:
Tells his children
Over the phone
Next to their bed
Kisses them good night
Where no one can see or hear
Truly is
A decent man
A man who:
Doesn’t make promises
But shows over
Time
His worth
His character
Is someone to know
A man who:
Makes mistakes
But tries his damndest
To make amends
May not see
Eye to eye
With all
But
Respects the process
Of understanding
Each other
A man who:
Writes poetry anonymously
Posts it for the world to
See
Is an enigma
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
That cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
Sittin’ on the pisspot in a one horse town
Salient sista, she sees them cowpokes
And they do their damndest to draw her attention
Oh, she’s seen chairs thrown, barfights break out
And the piano man run away
Sometimes they shoot the others down
All for the chance to pay two dollars
To lay with the only cowgirl in town
She’s the Queen Sheba of the saloon girls
**** loose and fast
Motherly and tender, it’s all for the askin
Sanctified or sinister, that cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
I asked her to marry me
Many times before
She laughed and said, “Honey, you can’t have me.”
In my naïveté I thought I could change her wayward ways
Domesticate her like I’d break a young filly
All the thoughts of getting off the trail, building a house,
Settling down and starting a family.
But that cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
I can't have it
and you can't have it
and we won't
get it
so don't bet on it
or even think about
it
just get out of bed
each morning
wash
shave
clothe
yourself
and go out into
it
because
outside of that
all that's left is
suicide and
madness
so you just
can't
expect too much
you can't even
expect
so what you do
is
work from a modest
minimal
base
like when you
walk outside
be glad your car
might possibly
be there
and if it is-
that the tires
aren't
flat
then you get
in
and if it
starts--you
start.
and
it's the damndest
movie
you've ever
seen
because
you're
in it--
low budget
and
4 billion
critics
and the longest
run
you ever hope
for
is
one
day.
4k
The two of us staring
At the stars in the sky
Making wishes on comets
And things that fly by
What will we be like?
Where will we live?
We will we both be successful?
Will we both take or give?
Questions unanswered
Questions not asked
Some are worth knowing
Some left in the past
Go in with eyes open
Your life will be grand
Just give it your damndest
And go lead the band
In the back of the pickup
My girlfriend and me
Make dreams upon stardust
At a quarter to three
We're out in the cornfield
In my old chevy truck
Planning out lifes direction
On a stroke of good luck
Questions unanswered
Questions not asked
Some are worth knowing
Some left in the past
Go in with eyes open
Your life will be grand
Just give it your damndest
And go lead the band
It may be a spaceship
That's come down from afar
Or we may be there wishing
On some shooting star
Our future is waiting
There'll be tough times ahead
Meeting those expectations
We made in that truck bed
Questions unanswered
Questions not asked
Some are worth knowing
Some left in the past
Go in with eyes open
Your life will be grand
Just give it your damndest
And go lead the band.
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 6:55 PM UTC
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
I.
There are the balladeers,
Working in service of their inner Service,
(Though, despite the seeming impossibility,
Their hackneyed verse is even worse)
Creating tortuous rhyme
Which slows down labyrinthine narratives
Ending up in some deus ex machine
So implausible that it would make Euripides blush
(Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile
Or sudden viral contagion;
Would that their creators meet such a fate!)
II.
I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers,
But to bury them.
They are an earnest lot,
(Lord knows that they are earnest)
And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme
(Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy)
And hang the cost.
Though their narratives are head-scratching things,
And their iambs proceed with the steadiness
Of a nonagenarian church pianist
Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw,
They are content, nay, proud of their work
Because babble rhymes with Scrabble
(Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter,
They have the former down to an art.)
III.
Let us not forget the Buk-zombies,
Those apostles of aphorism,
Most of whom speak of their departed deity
As if he were an old drinking buddy
(Never mind that most of them were two or three
Or perhaps not even a bad idea
In the back seat of some mom’s Buick
When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.)
One’s mind is boggled whilst considering
The expanse of the bar required to accommodate
Everyone who would like to
(Or worse, have claimed to)
Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round.
They are a sullen horde, this lot,
Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull.
IV.
Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls
(For they shall have none upon ours.)
They feel so many things so deeply
As such things have never been felt before
(They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass,
Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no,
They have all read their Plath.)
It is, from the moment they arise in the morning
Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them,
All too much for them,
And they bravely face the days
Until such time they care bear to take action
And fling themselves from some convenient precipice.
We should, as a service to them and ourselves,
Ensure the soles of their shoes
Are sufficiently worn and slippery.
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
It’s the damndest thing when attentions focused
on one thing beget the focus of another
Like the rooster crowing the sunlight
in the cold, ungrateful weather,
My eyes scan the ups and downs
of those digital stand-ins for those I’ve known
Seeing mistakes, my own and in others,
Seeing perfection, in other’s imperfect successes,
wantonly rubbed in my eyes
As I springboard from the travails of those
with whom I may never vocalize my adoration
I drop out of the air of a life far from mine,
I see mention of a passed on spirit
Who I truly adored,
no digital fakery of half-true fables necessary
to express my love for the ideals implanted in me
by such a tongue so supplicant to the truths in that vast ether
where I used to swim in the light,
never thinking of the dark climes below.
What choice do I have on an accidental evening like tonight?
I no longer can mask disinterest for other’s soaring narratives
when my true care has been discovered,
been pried away from that dark corner of the airborne pool so ethereal.
My care, my pride have been torn asunder,
by a mere errant glance on a mere sideways mention
Of a massive, earthly idol, who, if only for a stanza of years
held my full gaze with hopeful smiles and ecstatic promise
for bright futures now gone into grey pastures.
I lay here an imposter in authentic skin
if only for the sight of words on screens,
with scant meaning in between.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
Not sure if you’ve ever
heard of
Phineas Gage,
but he was a railroad man somewhere
in Vermont
and one day he accidentally blew a
******* iron rod through his
******* think-box and
here’s the kicker:
He
*******
lived.
Now, this big metal cylinder,
on its flight path,
carved a cavern in Gage’s
cerebrum, more specifically
through his frontal lobe
and when the bleeding finally stopped
and they got his left eye all sewn shut
he told the first person he saw,
probably a loved one crowded around his
filthy hospital bed
to kindly
**** Off and Die.
He got out of that hospital bed,
eventually,
and when he did, he tried his damndest
to go back to work
but he just couldn’t.
What’s more his friends said he just wasn’t
Gage
any more. His personality
had changed.
He didn’t give a **** about
the sunset anymore.
He liked his coffee black and his pancakes
dry.
Which is strange because beforehand
he didn’t drink any coffee
and he didn’t like pancakes much neither.
He also became quite
the drinker,
which is funny considering he hadn’t had
a drop
of alcohol
in his life
before then.
You see I always thought that
personality
was something you couldn’t
touch.
That it was some grand unifying evidence
of the existence of the human
soul.
But here’s Gage,
who just so happens to take
a pole to the dome
and suddenly he’s just
not
Gage.
So maybe it’s true
that we’re all just
machines
and you can pull a man’s
favorite color
or his taste in music
or his eating habits
out of his head
and set them on a sterile tray
right in front of him.
That makes sense.
But everything in me
still wants to
believe.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
Buttercups running aloof
in mi cluttered mind
of discomfort
Leaflets flapping
as the world turns
mournfully
on its side
Turnstiles of my life
flipping through
the pages of time
and all i can see is
misery
Flowers cresting
in the space they’re
allowed
hoping for the light
the rain...
the time-
Memories wafting
by the impulse of wind
billowing, bellowing
the new season
begins
yet all i can see is the
scenery of despair
Tormented tides
slapping upside mi head
drowning mi tears
as if i were dead
Wandering dreams
of days future past
i’m trying mi damndest
to make mi life
l...a...s...t...
But all i can see
is languishing fear
******** and moaning
not seeing the light
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 3:50 AM UTC
My emotions towards you are aquatic. They drip, slip, pulse
and flow to the path of most resistance. Subtle beauties
stealthily scrapes my fear built walls to sudden stops.
These firing synapses, so intense that post spinal separation
I feel as if I have woke from a dream, fallen from the
beautiful skeleton winged bird carrying me.
The years I have spent hidden from eye’s view were attempts
at thwarting toothy rejections. Hidden, you wouldn’t
notice me cautiously juggling salacious seven faces.
You see, if I were to over commit past the “we” to the “us”,
my fine, out of tune Life of Possibilities would rattle
down, fracture shut. In a positive way of course!
I fear that if I gave you my crumbled, humbled heart you would
leave it somewhere, somewhere that the ravenous street
sweeper sharks might get their carnivore fins on it.
You knew all of this already, placing us back at level 1.
I tried my damndest, you can hardly see. Sorry
my dear, this is the best my poems can do.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 6:41 PM UTC
Oh, to sail upon the sea.
To brave that which so scares me,
To leave land and life behind,
To sever those ties that bind.
To experiance all those amazing places that I so want to SEE!
That will be something that will forever impact me.
But oh,
Can it happen?
I don't know!
I'm really sick in my body,
Even though I have never said,
It is true that at times I,
Who so loves life,
And beauty.
Have wished to be dead.
Sometimes it is hard to continue on,
But I CAN be strong.
Because I want to experiance those places,
To see,
The world,
The tropics,
Those places,
That make me hope and dream,
The sea and its steams,
There is so much to see!
Dear God,
My lord,
heal me,
Let me be healthy,
So that I can live my dreams,
And photograph,
And experiance,
All that is in my heart,
All that is me.
I want to feel hot white sand beneath my feat,
To stand underneath the Saharan sun,
to feel that great heat,
To Stand upon Rapau Nui,
To FEEL that island beat,
I want to gaze upon the pyramids,
That are ages old,
To gaze upon greek statues of Zeus,
Marble and Gold.
To see forests,
Forever untouched by man,
To visit places,
Unique upon all the lands.
Seattle is my home,
From Father Mountains,
And Mother sea,
But I want to see those places that I always dream of.
Lord,
God,
Let me be free,
Let me healthy.
Or,
To hell with that,
Let me,
Be,
Tenacious enough,
To do what I dream of,
Anyway,
Good God,
Just let my spirit soar,
Let me see,
Let me Photograph,
Just,
LET ME BE FREE,
Just let me open my eyes to beauty,
and let me see.
(with camera in hand)
Long I stand,
Healthy or not,
Let it be known,
Life's,
God's,
Gaea's,
Great beauty,
I have sought.
Gone on too long,
This poem has rambled.
Dear lord,
Let me,
See.
At the end of my days,
Be it months or years,
Let me see those mountains,
Seas,
Shores and streams,
Let me see those places,
that constantly show up,
That shine through my dreams.
Let me see,
With camera in hand.
Sick or healthy.
Every part of me,
Will do my damndest,
to fight,
To take pictures,
and to stand,
Upon those shores,
sands and streams,
that beckon me,
through my dreams.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
the way that your hands fit into your pockets
makes it seem like you've got secrets
hiding in the creases of your palms
i wanna unravel your white-knuckled fists
and read the braille of your fingertps aloud
to a crowd of strangers
let me type my philosophies out
along the margin of your spine
in morse code
i'm the best story i've ever told
i can hear the strength in your voice flex when you laugh
something about that giggle of yours
could iron the wrinkled mountains down
and lie them flat on their backs
along the hem of the sea
i'm uncertain if your eyes are blue
or if they're grey
either way
i have to try my damndest not to climb inside
and hide
tuck myself behind your irises
and watch the gulls go by
from that distant shore
the thought brings me terror
i've had so many nightmares of being
crushed by the ocean's mighty limbs
lost forever
broken
at the bottom of a beautiful abyss
i wake unsure that i was even sleeping
...i found you on the dock
whistling sailor tunes
i'm doomed
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 12:24 AM UTC
The grass is always greener
As far as you can see
but you always sit there whining
Why him and why not me?
A better job a better life
A better house and car
You know just what you have to do
If you're gonna get that far
If you want to make an omlette
You have to break an egg or two
You have to work to earn it
Not just sit there feeling blue
Nothing is a given
You rarely move on up by chance
You've got to get a handhold
Go grab life by the pants
Just sitting waiting idly
Never gets the job done well
You can not sit and listen
You have to ring that bell
If you want to make an omlette
You have to break an egg or two
You have to work to earn it
Not just sit there feeling blue
One who sits and wonders
Why someone else gets all the fame
Has never tried to leave the bench
And get into the game
Stay hungry, do your damndest
Do not strive for second place
But, if you don't move at the starters gun
You're not even in the race
If you want to make an omlette
You have to break an egg or two
You have to work to earn it
Not just sit there feeling blue
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
I TORE UP YOUR SMILE
IN THE FRAME BY THE BED
TORE UP THE LOVE LETTERS
THAT I READ AND RE-READ
JOINED THE FUN AT A BAR
WHERE THEY POUR A GOOD BLEND
BUT YOUR SWEET MEMORY
JUST TORE ME UP AGAIN
CHORUS
I LAY WIDE AWAKE
COUNTING TEN THOUSAND SHEEP
CUZ IF I CLOSED MY EYES
YOU'D WALK IN MY SLEEP
I POUR DANIELS AND DICKEL
BUT MY SOLDIERS CAN'T WIN
YOUR SWEET MEMORY
JUST TEARS ME UP AGAIN
MY PSYCHIATRIST TOLD ME
SON, WHEN YOU'RE ALL THIS BENT
CALL UP AN OLD GIRLFRIEND
WITH A HEAVENLY SCENT
WELL, HER LIPS DID HER DAMNDEST
TO HELP AN OLD FRIEND
BUT YOUR SWEET MEMORY
JUST TORE ME UP AGAIN
CHORUS
Bridge: I emptied your closet
But you still made your mark
Cause your ghost won't be leaving
Till you tear out my heart.....
CHORUS
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
there's usually a sense of "hey this is what i do, this is what has happened to me, because of me, in spite of me", etc. for most
for me, comfort zone can be a major issue.
So, i'm new here...or sometimes it's, "yes, i am".
struggle can be keeping it together
other times it's getting it out.
most of the time it's making it up as i go along.
other times it's repeating what i've previously made up.
not in a nonfactual or lying sense, necessarily. not in a laying sense, necessarily.
duality divides me though it's more of a choice, i suppose.
sometimes cynic, other times scenic. mostly both.
So, i'm new here...about 2 hrs. or 31 years. or for an immeasurable blink of thought...i'm new here in the speed of ligh-deas.
there was 9 of us growing, 11 with my parents. now their is 8 of us still growing at the same individual rate and 1, i believe, expanding beyond what i am currently able to connect to. i miss it all, including the possibility of never knowing in the end.
my parents still growing.
the seeds of my own, blooming like rain drops turned snow ***** aimed at the desert floor. crashing with laughter, imposing their spirit and sky-packed piercing frost to the desolate detail that awaits the on-coming wave of a background made of mushroom clouds.
so, since i'm new here i can be blatant in, yes IN, the surface and a bit more cryptic in the subtext.
it helps to **** out the weeds...at times me being the ****
like a self-aware filing cabinet, collecting dust, holding on to perceived archaic attractions like faded paper, record players and the sound of giant stones sliding across one another. the option of a lock. the reality of a handle.
is there ever such a thing as "rambling"? who defines compromise? is peace and non-violence the only thing worth dieing for? do we only act when given the promise of reward? blah blah blah. i genuinely ask these ?s but it's hard to stay unpretentious when you're talking about yourself so much...but hey, i'm new here and i'm trying my damndest to not give a **** however i am writing this to share. perspective. take it...leave it...put it in to...pull it out of. awaken. sleep. and awaken.
so please and thank you. and welcome.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 1:18 PM UTC
I'm not her.
Don't tell me that's not what you want me to be.
Even if it's true, I still see things in your eyes
For a moment, strange and wistful
Years younger
Then, brightly pain-filled
Once you're reminded of this here-and-now land
Where I, as you know me
Am the one you hold in your arms
And try your damndest to love.
I'm not her
And that is something I'm trying not only to accept
But embrace.
If that's something you can't do
Well, --
Stop embracing me.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 11:30 PM UTC
To the girl sitting at the bar -
surrounded by bodies, but you're still alone -
please see the beauty they'll see
before they ever ask for your name.
Your smile is addictive
like this liquid courage
that frees our inhibitions,
and lets a rat sing poetry
to a hummingbird.
They don't care,
but I'm sure that you don't either.
But a face that pretty
with eyes as clear as your
gin and tonic,
and their intentions,
does not deserve
the ol' college
Walk of Shame.
The damndest thing
is that at the end of the night,
all you want is for someone to notice you,
to treat you like
how the music makes you feel.
I would buy a drink and your time,
I would point out the way
you grab your earlobe when you feel
isolated
But this game wasn't meant for me,
and I've heard that you want a player.
Sweetheart,
they all notice you.
The more you wear,
the less approachable you are.
So I ask:
Please see what they'll see
before they ever know your name.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
I'll be the first to give you what nobody gave me
I do my damndest to love you, but only one love can save me
and the same is true of you
I want to look like that
I'll be the first to run as hard as I can even after the fact
II'll let you walk on me even if it means I cannot breathe
I'm loving you better than I can even love me
And i fear that that will have to change
No I'm not selfless, at least not too long
because soon i look up from down and i'm too far gone
I've been told i can't live like this, Can't love like this
that it would run anybody into the ground
You've told me that the only way i could even begin to love you
is to have silence right now
so i swallow my heart, choke it back down to my chest
I will be silent, you will have your rest
I will not make a sound
but i will not bow,
to foolish ideas that i never loved you then,
and that i do not love you now
I've believed I gotta give up my soul to gain it
I am as broken or more than the faces i've painted
Can't pretend any longer
that self hate is sacred
I would have swallowed the truth sooner if i liked how it tasted
so i am noticing here that there has to be a balance
the truth must lie somewhere in the middle and i will have it
if i have got to pull out all my teeth
I will rip my tongue out
if that is what it tastes like
to gain the privilege of speech
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
Why?
Why should I?
They say “get over it”
It’s as if they accuse me
Of being the *******
Of being the master
Of being the racist
Of killing my past
And trying
To **** my mind
What did I do
To deserve this?
They must want something
But what?
I’m trying
But 40 acres and a mule
Doesn’t help a lynched man
A janitor’s job
Doesn’t help find my roots
A nice salary
Isn’t wealth
I’m supposed to love our country
I’m supposed to be grateful
For what?
Why don’t you explain it to me
Because I DON’T GET IT
Do you?
Please
If I’m wrong
Show me
It took
Just a bit of complaining
To defeat Bull Connor
It took
Just a bit of complaining
To defeat Jim Crow
But now they say
“Get over it”
That’s the damndest thing
“Get over it”
Get over what?
Slavery?
Lynching?
Being called a monkey?
Being called a ******
Being sent to war
But also to the back of the bus?
“Get over it”
Why don’t you explain how you do that?
What have you gotten over?
I see lots of folks on TV
With their problems
How they’ve been abused
But they are cheered for their courage
They get to sell books
I’m scorned for having the nerve
To bring it up
Are you afraid
Of what I want?
Money?
Retribution?
Revenge?
Should I forget all that
For what?
Because I was freed?
Should I be happy?
Because you allowed me to become
A human being?
Because I can eat
With you?
Because I can ride
Next to you?
Because you gave
What you had
All along?
How do they say it?
Inalienable rights
Granted by God
Or by you?
I know you are frustrated
With me
Because after killing me
And then allowing me to live
I’m still mad
I know how to forgive
And I'm trying to forget
Even though I'm not sure I should
But how do I forgive
Tomorrow's slap?
Am I Jesus?
I know what he said
But my cheeks hurt so much
They are bleeding
I'm trying so hard
But still
I have to get over it
Why?
Because I wasn’t a slave?
Those people are dead anyway
Right?
And you didn’t enslave them
Right?
So you and I are square
Is that it?
So why am I complaining?
Why won’t my mind heal?
Why won’t I just get a job?
Why won’t I just be quiet?
Why?
Are you blaming me?
I was inferior then
Now I’m ungrateful
I guess I don’t get it
Maybe you do
Please explain it to me
I’m all ears
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
..1. .
the fool remakes himself
into a bard
and no one laughs when
he says this out loud
because a crying fool
brings only melancholy and misery
and as for the bard?
well, the bard feels foolish
about so many things
the question still stands
begging for an answer
if loving you
was one of those foolish things
still, the bard would like to think
he understands what falling in love is like
if only from an artistic standpoint
like the poet to the muse
after all, hearts can’t be reasoned with
and this bard has made quite
a career out of being maudlin
welcomes fits of melancholy with open arms
knowing that a good ballad
a misguided declaration of love
is impossible to write without
have a good cry while doing it
2.
and sometimes there is
so much hurt in those tears
that if feels like anger
but the bard does not know
who it is directed at
and does that really matter?
for, while the anger of a poet
runs deeper than blood and bone
the love of a poet is
an infinite thing
maybe not a thing to say aloud
though, what is a bard without
the sweetness of his voice?
fingers tenderly plucking
at his own heartstrings
pulled taut again and again
nothing as poetic as that will
eventually break
even if the bard tries his
damndest to shatter knuckles
against his growing loneliness
because, sometimes, the truth
is saying that you’ve made him
cry and meaning it
when he confesses to missing
being no more than a fool
what does a fool know of love?
of heartbreak
of empty bottles
and emptier promises
the fool knows nothing at all
and the bard would like that back,
so tired of collecting the coins
made from making a broken heart
sound like such a beautiful thing
Jun 22, 2020
Jun 22, 2020 at 2:47 AM UTC
This is for the times
You don't know how to feel.
The times you hurt
And there's no reason why.
The days you try your
Damndest but go
Nowhere.
H. A. L. T.
H ungry
A ngry
L onely
T ired
If you're feeling this way,
W. R. I .T. E.
W orking
R elease
I nspired
T hrough
E nlightenment
Writing about
your problems,
Gives you a mirror
to look into.
And... R. E. A. D.
R ealizing
E veryone's
A ngst
D estroys!
Some may have problems
Worse than yours. Help them.
Thank you.
♡ Catherine
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 12:02 AM UTC
i am so close to hitting rock bottom i can feel pebbles brushing my toes.. i'm trying my damndest to swim up, before anyone knows.. and yet its easier to stay, and easier to drown.. its harder to paddle your way to the surface when you're the the one dragging yourself down.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
They say with time, comes grace
But I was born graceless
And the hourglass only reaffirms
That nothing, no one, will change that now
I saw your light dissipate
Fade out into the void of nothingness
I tried my damndest to keep it flickering
For as long as my unsteady heart could
I have grown weary, battered by the war
I've waged against gravity for years
But it looks like I have finally won
As I watch you drift further from the ground
Your light was a beacon to these brown eyes
I followed it like a second Northern star
They say the valiant don't stowaway in lost bliss
But I've never claimed to be the valiant sort
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
Sinatra did it his way, you did yours, and I did mine
And although we're not all famous, I think we turned out fine
We've lived a life of honour, one of which we can be proud
And although we aren't world beaters, you'll never lose us in a crowd
We've made mistakes and we have learned the things we need to do
At least I have, and as for you I hope that statement's true
We have regrets of things we've done and people that we've met
But, still I think we're stronger from the lessons that we get
From doing what we're doing and being who we are
It's got us all to this point, and I think that's pretty far
We've had losses and had wins that impact how we act
Some have made us better and some worse for a fact
We are not always proper with what we write or say
But, I think we came out better when we sit and close our day
We've made friends and we've had lovers leave marks upon our life
We've been lucky with our choices and we've had our share of strife
I've tried to leave each place I've been better than when I came
And I'm sure that you have tried to do this just the same.
I'm a person you can count on when we know the chips are down
I'll be there to do my damndest to help you smile and lose that frown
I am better for having known you and I hope you feel the same
For all I ask in ending is just don't forget my name
For when I'm dead and buried, I know I didn't change the earth
But for the short time I was here I'd like to know I showed my worth
So, Sinatra did it his way, you did yours, and I did mine
And although we're not all famous, I think we turned out fine
We've lived a life of honour, one of which we can be proud
And although we aren't world beaters, you'll never lose us in a crowd
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 6:29 PM UTC