"recollection" poems
Little house
Timeless street
Childhood garden
The scent of your preschool playground after a storm on a Wednesday in may
The ring of your parents' doorbell
The weepy feeling looking at childhood photos and knowing you'll never get those moments back
The melancholy moment you realize the book you're reading was your favorite bedtime story
The second the atmosphere shifts and you're suddenly thrown back to memories of your mothers embrace on a stormy night
The suffocating feeling of revisiting tales thinning at the ends as your recollection slowly fades
The slipping grip of what once was that will never be again, slowly turning faded and acid washed until its nothing but a feeling you cant put a name to
Nostalgia
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 7:12 AM UTC
A bleak motive, turning in a black backwards motion.
Fluent in rushing, pursuant in the crushing.
Ebony wood, the serenity compared to the knife.
A stifling recollection, within the house of corrections.
Was it a natural selection, gazing within the angel's reflection?
Garbed in white, and in her conviction.
A change of direction, now...
The resurrection of our mutual affection,
Was it over protection, or was it just mental rejection?
The pain was only an imperfection, built within all our disconnection.
My sense of direction gone within your vertical selection,
left with words- sharp like a needle;
sticking an intravenous injections.
So, should I offer my protection? Moments, within sight of the point of intersection?
No, keep on...
Keep on spreading the rejection infection.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
There's a ghost in the machine
A distant heartbeat
An echo
A recollection of tides pulled by the rhythm
Of the moon
A lunar cycle
Of leaves swirled
And now settled
By the whisper
Of the breeze
A message repeated
But not audibly heard
Remembered and understood.
You are in the right place
Where you need to be
All you need now
Is to breathe and be.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 5:40 AM UTC
Art Bouchard,
My father,
Never marched a drill,
Nor fired an angry shot...
Recounted fond memories
I've heard so many times:
How long ago, when I was very young,
He and our neighbor,
Art Pribnow,
Up before the sun,
Engaged in tractor battles
(Dad was very sure he won).
My father woke those mornings,
Early 1960s,
With the popping cough of
Worn diesel pistons
Clattering out white smoke...
Then blue and black,
As engine heat and friction
Tightened gaps,
Sealed compression,
And the motor steadied into an even roar.
Across the county road
Our only neighbor led or followed suit,
Sending smoke and sound
To drown the morning songs
of meadowlarks and robins.
Fifty years later,
Dad laughed in recollection,
"We started rising just a little
Earlier each day.
Started up our tractors
In a sort of game
Called, 'Who's out first?'"
Six became a quarter of,
Then five-thirty backed to four.
One tractor or the other roared,
Early and then earlier
To be the first to pull
Into the waiting fields.
When three-thirty came around
My mother shook her head,
But if she said a word,
I never heard.
These battling neighbors
Even started engines up
Before they ran,
Milking buckets swinging,
to their barns to chore
As early became earlier
in the little farmers' war.
One day in town,
By happenstance,
A meeting came between the two.
My father, being younger,
Had energy for more,
But old Art Pribnow shook his head,
Grabbed my dad's hand and said,
"Let's stop this foolishness
Before one of us is dead!
I don't know about the hours you keep,
Or what got in our heads,
But I admit, I need my sleep!"
The farmer battle ended then.
A hand shake and a smile
Between two farmer friends,
Created country lore,
Remembered here a little while,
As, "The Early, Earlier War."
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
R Red moon came to soon the red "Viper" love spoon
E Energy trembles hearts race eluding like the Dodge Viper
D Devil red ****** moons demolition Dodge of technology
M The moon of darkness dissolves like lava "Hot Male"
O Orderly overindulgence the moon at a comfortable rhythm
O Out of touch slowly getting back to your outstanding body
N New Age High noon time Eqyptian Nile moon neverending
S Shift of energy simplicity strengthens your existence
T Truly love for the family the moons makes a celebration
A- Able so articulate touch the moon lover fate
R Robin bird flies manifest the ruler the rider risque delighter
S Sensible and a seductive moon she is superstitious
C Circle of light sacred chalice not to be malice
An Amorous depth of feeling delicious Moon love key luxury
R Rituals turns to purity racing minds of sanity ♥ Car Vipers ♥
V Vampires blood moon lessons to be learned
I Ingenious Free yourself from anger all love inked
P Patience is a virtue Moon true Periwinkle blue
E Ecstasy the moon turns on the celebration of love
R Recollection of moon poems time to be Reborn
S Sensational Venus Soulmate of cars Sultry Valentine moon
I can't wait to come home soon that was a trip to my moon.
°• Dodge Viper •°”˜. zoomed off to the Red Moon
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 9:50 AM UTC
people find it hard
to believe happiness
because for many,
it’s much more of a myth
or a hazy recollection
than it is something real
and rational and
to be aspired too
love and hope
and dreams
have taken on this air of
imagination
in recent generations
for a brief moment,
they were truly believed in
by the adults
by the people in charge
by the whole wide world
even as everything they knew before
had crumbled and wrecked
to a state beyond
their power to
repair
but it was that desolate place the world was
that drove the people to believe in such fancy
and frivolous thoughts
because if they had not,
the world would’ve withered
and died, like a cow so old
you know there’s no hope
or a flower so far gone
that you don’t mind to let it
wilt
those times went though,
like a leaf upon the wind,
as the children began acting
as the adults and followed
their dreams to a land so
few actually reached
and as the adults saw their failure
and the children saw the adults flee
the belief in love, in hope, in dreams,
in morals, in rites, in traditions, in
togetherness, in family, in belief-
failed
and
sunk
the last tip of the ship leaving the surface
with the first person who believed in the
infomercial
we do not know what we can do
because we do not believe we can
do anything
happiness, as I started this all out with,
is not a bed-time story
it is very real
and it is very
powerful
but in each average person’s life
they get to experience only once
or twice, seeming like a random
occurrence, and thus cementing
in so many people’s minds that
it is
but it is not
happiness comes from knowing how to be happy
it’s not about sacrifice
or faith
or hard-work
or dedication
it’s about knowing who you are,
what the world is,
and how you
can make
the best
of it
this is not some secret art
it is a simple idea:
that happiness can be controlled
and it’s execution is even simpler:
how can I be happy?
how can I be happy,
forever?
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 8:28 PM UTC
Sadness collapses the faculties that hold together reality
Disconnected
the observer lost in painful recollection,
experiences life with no feeling of the present
A silent numbness takes over the senses,
a muted movie plays.
The zombie walks forward
hoping for better days
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC
Heart skips
like a warped record,
trembles over scarred vinyl
until "I love you"
tastes incomplete:
(I) love you
I (love) you
I love (you).
My Swan Song mewls off key,
cascades across the
marred terrain of my soul
in a thick lacquer of tears.
Notes flatline
in unison with my
waning pulse
(waning, like the face
of the moon on the night
of my eighteenth birthday).
My breath
resigns to static,
dances in slow decrescendos--
sputters its way
towards nothingness,
slipping rapidly from
my consciousness until
I no longer hold
any recollection of the music
(or the poetry).
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC
I carry the clothes on my body–
a plain t-shirt and sweater leggings–
attempting to stay warm and keep cool.
I carry my backpack,
my heavy, heavy backpack,
to carry the things I can’t carry in my arms…
my books, pencils, papers, and keys.
In my arms I sometimes carry more books,
sometimes a cup of chai, and sometimes, nothing. Sometimes
I wish I carried a little bit more time;
then I could carry the things I’ve left behind.
I carry all the parts of me simultaneously, and I am full now.
I carry my eyes, for without them, my path would be blurred,
and I would be ignorant.
I carry my ears to hear music and dissonance and
I carry a heart to feel the soundwaves and make sense of them.
I carry my nose to hold the sweetness of a flower in my lungs,
and skin to caress their soft petals,
without plucking them.
When I carry nothing, I sleep,
and in my dreams, I carry the clouds and the stars beyond them.
From there I may see the things I have yet to carry.
I carry my own weight across the populated Earth.
I carry my own gravity and the light of the sun.
I carry the stars from my dreams, and from them,
I create constellations in broad daylight.
I carry my heart.
I carry the soundwaves of voices like
space nymphs, singing songs I want to remember.
I carry the sight of people coming closer and drifting further from me,
escaping and re-entering my orbit,
an arm-length or a light-year away.
I carry their images and sometimes,
I reach for their silhouettes and I try to feel their thoughts.
I carry my heart and it is full.
My heart is filled with emotion,
and my emotions are the Earth’s turbulent winds
across a golden, sun-kissed field and
the sound of a waterfall crashing into
a pool of water at the bottom of the valley, and
equally the eye of the storm in which
the world is a spinning oblivion,
but here, it is quiet.
My heart is the recollection of times past
in a yellowed, well-worn tome awaiting a reader and
the diary of someone whose story begs to be forgotten.
My heart beats for someone to understand its journey,
but it longs to understand what it beats for.
I carry the silence and the music alike;
I carry the Earth and all its wonders.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 11:25 AM UTC
It is only in the state of galvanization,
do I realize what it means to be impervious in youth.
I have a father who stresses to me this:
"Happiness is elusive."
This is the kind of statement that must be swished around in the mouth,
only to be spat back out.
"Happiness is elusive."
It is cause for concern,
really.
I will do my best in order to refuse to believe it,
to believe him.
Happiness is achieved through discovery.
I think that I may have once had a sister (in my recollection she was very pretty).
I was around her whenever it was deemed possible to do so -- it honestly wasn't too often that I could.
In the very nooks and crannies of my childhood,
if I could fall back unto the natural sublimity of it all;
I do recall that I had a sister.
Her features must have been youthful,
from what I remember she was no more than inexplicable.
If it were not so ambiguous,
I might feel more inclined to speak with her again some day.
The past is a scary thing.
I feel pain in thinking of the lengths behind me,
for what I have cultivated is sour.
Recently a good friend accused me of this:
"Being a recluse, spiteful, selfish person."
Her notion both confused and throttled me,
and only afterward did she speak in such a fervently aural tone:
"That is o.k., you're only human after all."
This is the very comment that sliced my being into a duality,
leaving me to write poetry in order to attempt to find higher acceptance.
Wisdom is a well, funny euphemism for delusion;
And in my youth I am impervious.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
When the moon finally meets it's ceiling
Ahh, I wish I could describe the feeling
The countryside gives me a terrific peak
Early sun illuminates an anacamptic creek
The cricket's intuition ends their rhythmic chirp
I can see the dew glisten on the grass and the dirt
All silence - besides the wind and the bluejay
They spin through the sky for a game the two play
Warm waves of air push over the hills
Goosebumps ensue but I welcome the chills
This is a moment that an artist might draw
but he simply can't because he's part of it all
This is a setting that our memories reluctantly dilute
Though recollection of chores are crisp and acute
Try as I may - I can not pocket this instant
For when the day emerges it all becomes distant
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 3:39 AM UTC
What Relapse feels like
Relapse- a proper noun that steals your attention and commands your obedience
Every person that was a part of your recovery had been lying
The recollection that it did not **** you but it did not make you stronger
Reliving the moment it stopped your living and when it prevented your dying
The feeling that you will not survive much longer
That is how relapse feels
The first taste of fruit after a long and barren winter
A moment of peace in a life measured in seconds
The perfectly straight lines of a newly aligned printer
A demand for piled servings and SECONDS!
That is how relapse feels
The need of a familiar place; of a familiar face
Desire for someone to hold you tight
The need to go far away; to go to outer space
Desire to leave this world for the light
That is how relapse feels
It's a ripping motion
Between wanting it to end and wanting its intensification
Between having to much and too little emotion
And the worlds between the brain speak languages with no translation
That is how relapse feels
It feels so good just to be so bad
The beauty in the human body's ability to mend and to break
It feels so bad just to be so sad
And the repulsive face of being awake
That is how relapse feels
It's a tearing
It's a tugging
It's a pulling
It's a shoving
Relapse is looking at the sky and thanking God for the ability to be alive
ten minutes before a battle in the head
asking if it's worth it to survive
ten minutes before tears stain so silently alone in bed
It's a promise broken
It's every moment spent clean wasted
It's the truth unspoken
It's the loss of happiness that had barely been tasted
That.
That is how relapse feels.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
My complex brain keeps me thinking deeply
For hours it keeps spitting **** perpetually.
I think outside the box and write always,
look at things in 3D and cross the streets sideways.
This is the universe at work in another way.
Maybe I'm being rewarded, if I may,
For the countless hours put into thinking
About a fraction of mankind's problems.
And the thoughts about seeking answers to questions,
That will someday bring a resolution to our problems,
For the universal betterment and the good of mankind.
Maybe I'm a product of some social and scientific
Or intellectual experiments or the combination of all three.
All that was yesterday, when I was something else
If I was ever made a saint then for my past good deeds,
I have no recollection of what transpired down those dark Corridors of the part of the multiverse I came from.
So, if I ever did some positive things in my past life,
Kudos to that mass or ball of energy I once was.
Today, maybe I'm just one idiot with a laptop
Who has time to write things some people may deem
obnoxious, senseless and otherwise incomprehensible?
Maybe I'm an outlet for deep thoughts
And a vessel of wisdom for some people.
Through perseverance and the little time, I have on hand,
I have helped save lotta folks some precious time
In coming to acknowledge the reality of our time.
Thus, making it easier for them to see,
That things are messed up and that despite this,
hope looms!
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 9:31 PM UTC
It is war
A kitchen full of hungry guest
An audience of folks ready for experience in the physical sense
You sweat, bleed, love, and hate
It is sharing
In the most obvious state
Of emotion garnished on the plate
A lit cigarette on your break
It is satisfaction
Knowing you gave it all
Or at least pretending when the orders fall
Letting your instincts flow when you stall
It is passion and peer review
A drink with "The Family" after all is through
And each pint brings you closer to
A recollection of a memory
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 6:08 AM UTC
If she studies you with that particular look, and you know the one I'm indicating.
Kick off your shoes and glide across the floor towards your loved one.
Place your palm firmly on the back of her neck and your other at center mass.
With your lips pressed firmly against hers, open her mouth and clean her teeth, stroke her taste buds, feel her heat and free your minds together as one exploding fire ******* soaring vertically with the sporadic curvature of the bottle rocket.
Don't stop there, you've got her. She wants you to take complete control. Push her with gentle pressure against the nearest wall and allow progression. Fuse her neckline with your bite and move south to utilize her forearms and thighs. All the while you've cupped her **** cheeks like palming a basketball. From there on, use the organic passion that comes from within. She's giving herself to you. She will not hold this against you. On the contrary, this memorable concession of unbiased surrender is a gift, from your other to you. When it comes to a woman's love, these are some of the best times that you will be offered. Keep desire on fire and make your way to completion together. This recollection you guys are developing will hold years of reminiscence.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
I remember it as if were yesterday
VE Day...well, not exactly
but, close enough for me
The actual surrender of Italy
May 2, 1945....but the **** Americans
Always the Americans wanted May 8
So, it's May 8th, but I'll always remember the second
We were in Milan...I love Milan
****** was dead, Mussolini was dead
I was alive, and in Milan
Rumours were out that the war in Europe was almost done
Nobody had told the Gerry's that though
Word came from Lubeck that they'd surrendered
I was twenty one years old, going on 50
War ages you...and not in a good way
I was in 6th Airborne and ready to go back
When the word came down
I remember kissing the waitress at our cafe
I kissed her hard, and with as much passion as a 21 yr. old can have
I didn't want to let her go
It was over
I kissed her for myself, and everyone in Milan
I kissed her for my folks in Clapham
I kissed her for her folks, wherever they were
I kissed her because we were free, they were free
I kissed her for my Uncle, who we lost early in 1941
Lost him during the blitz in London
England lost 430 people, we lost Uncle Cyril
That was enough, I was signing up
Now, it was over and I was moving on
I kissed her for everyone still waiting for the news
But, most of all, I kissed her for Leslie Testro, Rfn (18yrs)
Lance Cpl Thomas Wray (22 yrs), Lt. Dennis Edmonds (21 yrs)
and all the others attached to 6th Airborne
Who wouldn't know it was Victory in Italy
They were lost, not forgotten, never forgotten
Forever in our minds, our roll of honour
We celebrate them annualy
Few of us left now, but, those that are
go back to Italy every two or three years
back to Milan, and we toast them all
My waitress, Rosa Testrini
She was there as well, every year
Until five years back, we lost her
Now we toast her as well
We all have our honour roll
She was on mine
I found her again in 1950
We were on our second trip back
She met my wife, and I her husband
He's still there, and we talk
My Italian is better than his English
But, we talk as well as we can
I miss her, and the others
But that day, that glorious day in May
I've never kissed like that since
And my wife knows it
Sometimes she reminds me...
I laugh, and remind her....
What that day means...if it hadn't happened
We may not be kissing now
so, she'll never get that kiss
Only Rosa
Rest In Peace my waitress
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
I hate the beach
I'm eighty six and I hate the beach
Hate the sand, not a fan of the surf
Face it, I hate the beach
Last time I went there
I had just turned 18 years old
June sixth, Nineteen Hundred Forty Four
God, I hate the beach
I was in the 5th Regiment
Régiment de Maisonneuve
and I've never been to a beach since
I'm from Verdun, Quebec, Canada
Not many beaches around there
Thank the lord for that I say
We'd been training for six months
Operation Overlord it was called
We were coming in on troop carriers
It was to be a beach head landing
I'd never seen a beach before
At least not for real
Never want to see another
We arrived early June 6, 1944
I think I said that already
You must forgive me,
I'm 86 years old and I hate the beach
fourteen thousand Canadian Troops
Bursting out of armoured troop ships
Like, the young, virile, brahma bulls we were
Coming in, all I could hear was the waves
I was in front, well...close to the front
I remember, there were no birds
who ever heard of that?
A beach with no birds
At least not at this beach
I could smell the salt in the air
And I knew I could hear the surf
And my heart, I could **** well hear that
But, no birds, I couldn't hear the birds
Gunfire, nope...cannons and mortars
But birds and guns, not a sound
Weird huh?
I remember running forward
Always forward, past blocks
Wood barricades and barbed wire
And bodies, lots of bodies
I knew that I knew some of them
I just didn't have time to stop
And say goodbye,
I just ran
Emptied my weapon at least once
I only know this, because it was empty
when I hit the beach
God, I hate the beach
You know in the movies
or in those flowery books
where they talk about someone being shot
and how "there was a bloom or
they're chest flowered red where they were hit"
I never saw that, never looked back
Just ran forward, saw the "bloom" in their backs
Don't like red, or flowers or the beach
I don't remember much after that
Could still hear my heart
That's a good thing, I guess
I got tore up good with the wire
but I never got shot
Never, "bloomed" for anyone
A few of my buddies were lost
I toast them every year
Never at the beach though
I hate the beach
Wife and kids used to go
I never did, never will
I remember the 50th anniversary though
Wife and kids went back
Not me,
Went into Montreal to see a ball game
Montreal Expos 10, Houston Astros 5
I remember Will Cordero hitting a homer
It was the sixth inning, I toasted the hit
I thought about that day 50 years before
And went back to watching the game
I hate the beach
My name is Gilles Roquefort
I'm eight six years old
And I can still feel the sand and taste the salt
On a bad day.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 7:06 PM UTC
I found myself waiting
for love i already own.
Found myself in every reflection.
No recollection of home.
My heart called my name and this time I recognized.
heavy rains of mother earth
washed away my masks
so i bear no disguise.
ancestors became clearer when i looked inside the mirror
i remember my true beauty
reflecting so pure
i see nothing clearer .
i love myself...
i am love
i am light
i am energy so free and abundant
i am cosmic
i am source
divine creation of masculine and feminine combined
infinite intelligence
wonder and wisdom.
everlasting love, companion to life itself.
"break free, my child"
intuition whispers to me
voice as soft and sweet as sugar cane
no longer a victim of ILLusion and strife
i root myself deep and call back in all my power
so my friend, as you read this, consider it your final hour
what will your bring with you into this new earth?
wake up.
wake up.
wake up.
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 11:01 PM UTC
spirit stone
the emotion caught
in your embrace
where my body
melts into yours
the perfect blend
of masculine
and feminine
bathing in a river
of marble
the waves are
disquieting
the ring is lost
spirit stone
don’t deceive me
with other women
don’t trick me with
the old man
at your feet
I do not give up
I slave away
I work morning
and night
spirit stone
everything has been
cut
hay, wheat, stone
the interlude in
the fields
the moment when
the ring is found
dawn and thought
watch me
dawn and thought
wear on my
countenance
spirit stone
the moving echo
of my own past
the waltz to come
the hidden
atelier
the moment when
the king falls in love
with his wife
with his child
spirit stone
I am muse
I am artist
I am caught like
a fly
an agnostic
queen who found
the ring
to fall in the arms
of man
spirit stone
if you keep your
promise
we will grow
with the sky
if you keep your
promise
we will be in
paradise
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 12:46 PM UTC
You sad fool. My dear, old friend
How I find myself waiting for you again.
Your eyes drive into mine, with brights on,
and you leave palpable words hanging in the air with the writings by your teeth,
without a mouth to open, just jaw clenched, no recognition of existence,
And your hands are soldering irons cooled clenched until clashing into my air
Touching time, and instantaneously heating space, as an element
Reaching Avogadro's number, ten to twenty-third
Holes appear between us.
I remember when we used to laugh
And mostly at each other,
but not as we do now.
There was no malice.
One day maybe there will be solace.
"You act as though I'm a nice guy"
So it's true you like to objectify
The object (oh, the irony) of your affection
Which is anything that cares to mention
How creative was your invention
It was not my intention to
Organize a fluidity to the scrutiny
And the staged mutiny of what was a foundation.
For it's not representative to your thumbprint.
I feel no organization here. You have ordered chaos.
Francisco,
Bring up your lights.
Just remember that you look best at night, when the moon is carved into the sky
and your real intentions revealed.
Where you sit upon that pale desk
And wrap your knuckles against the floor,
Stab with a quill the pools you leave behind,
to write your ***** recollection,
Just remember you look best when your tears catch this starlight.
Francisco, bring up your ****** lights.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 12:02 AM UTC
I can break the laws of the universe
It's true
Everybody can
Everybody has
_Even you!_
It happens in a special place that exists in the peripherals of your mind
When you look for it it hides
When you think about it it ceases to exist
And you can never find it
But you visit it almost every night
_This space is the brink of your subconscious!_
_The space between worlds and realities!_
_A singularity, where physical law is a mirage!_
On the nights we sleep but don't dream, we visit this place
It's between the day's last conscious thought and the following's first
In this space hours past in faster than an instant
There is no body, soul or mind
There is no void
There is no colour
There is no concept of empty
_Pure, absolute nothing!_
In this space, the entire universe ceases to exist
We wake the next morning with no recollection.
We know objectively that time has passed,
And eventually the feeling of our temporary transcendence fades
And we carry on without asking
This happens to all of us,
On nights you sleep, but don't dream
And in that space
You can break the laws of the universe
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 12:15 PM UTC
Don't you chirp at me.
Eyes closed, the sun stabs her in the mouth.
The taste of fear fills her face as everything come back;
she vomits a good while,
memories stirring and playing themselves in the tune of a forgotten sea
(cause times are changing and that's just what they do).
spit. trust. trust. spit.
Waves crashing against a wall of recollection in a way
that is meant to be kept for the punitive and the exiled.
The train blares outside somewhere
fuzzy focus dissipates quickly
and this slowly comprising function of clarity
comes to a screeching halt as it begins to pour in.
In some state of bewildered entitlement
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 2:40 AM UTC
Watching life’s play,
From the nosebleed section.
If I die today,
It’s natural selection.
I hear what people say,
But don’t make the connection,
The past fades away,
To a vague recollection.
99 problems,
No retorts or solutions,
Trying to pay my bills,
Without resorting to prostitution.
Losing is a life lesson,
Hard to learn,
It’s a truth I mention,
In no uncertain terms.
They say if you get knocked down,
Get back up,
But sometimes when I’m knocked out,
I’ve had enough.
My drive and ambition,
Is out of gas,
But I’m stuck in my position,
Can’t change the past.
They said, “It’s okay chum,
There’s a future to make.”
But no, it’s okay son,
I choose not to partake.
I’m on the road of life,
Just taking a jog,
But I can’t run right,
Cause I’m an underdog.
I know I’m not perfect,
I’ve made mistakes,
But I really do deserve it,
So give me a break.
Girlfriend told me,
I’d never succeed.
I choked at her,
Cause I forgot to breathe.
I was told to walk,
Off the beaten track,
I talk one step forward,
Then whisper two steps back.
I’ve been made a fool,
I’ve played the clown,
I never broke the rules,
But I still broke down.
When I look in the mirror,
To examine my features,
It brakes when brought nearer,
So I pick up the pieces.
You know I don’t deal,
In self depreciation,
So what you find here,
Is honest estimation.
I’m not clever as Copernicus,
Or strong as King Kong,
Even when you’re learning this,
You knew it all along.
I’m on the road of life,
Drifting through the fog,
But I can’t see tonight,
Cause I’m an underdog.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC
A month ago I sat in class
in a New England School for boys
Now, I'm in a bomber group
Adjusting to the noise
I made plans for Harvard
A doctor, I would be
Then my life would turn
In a way I didn't see
The war was on in Europe
We saw in the press
But, 18 days before Christmas
we were pulled into the mess
Future plans were put aside
Our country we'd support
We'd forget all of our future thoughts
We'd join, though not for sport
We signed up down in Boston
Young men flyers, soldiers all
Preparing for a battle
Many would not live till fall
We thought not of our future
Our present, all we had
Many dead by Christmas next
The thought is truly sad
You do not what you want to
But, what needs to be done
You go from boy to man so fast
You've barely walked...now run
Think back on those who made it
Remember who did not
Young men they are forever
They deserve a longer thought
The air is pure and holy
It is scattered with young souls
Boys, now men who went to war
And put aside their goals
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC