"youngster" poems
When you Turn 22
Things tend to tread for years on end
No longer the blushing youngster
or the naive college drinker
the world may open slowly
as an oyster holding closer it's pearl
the same goes for the world
once coming of age
becomes the ripe wine we've been waiting for
you will not turn to stone
but turn into the truth
which is who you've been designed to be
after 21
this is when the silhouette you've been filling
finally fades on in
who are you
who did you want to be
well now,
let's find out.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 2:48 AM UTC
My childhood was alluring days,
I miss those days in many ways.
I was so adorable on those days
And delightful like sun rays,
When I was a child,
My heart was painted with full of colours
And filled with beautiful imagination.
The whole world was like a pearl to me.
It was the most happiest days of past.
But I miss those days in many ways.
I played with my childhood friends and brothers.
I played with different types of toys and flowers.
They are like my lovers.
My life filled with happiness and joy.
Those days was heaven for me.
First day my mother left her hand,
She went away with a crying face
It broke my heart in many ways.
It was the first step to my kinder garten.
It was a new atmosphere for me.
I cried and played with ***** mud
And mud caked to my new shoes.
I miss all the fun and beauty of my eyes.
In my childhood i wished for many things.
Now I wish ,I want my funniest childhood days.
I realise they were the big things to me.
All are going through many stages in life.
The day I found my little tricycle in the backyard.
My mind run backward fastly.
Like a super car and all my memories shuffled,
Until I reach the memories of evergreen childhood.
Childhood is the best or world to all.
Everyone want to be a child atleast one day.
I want back my lamp,
To remove the darkness of world.
Music is inside in everyone's heart,
But It won't show out in some case.
Like childhood memories are inside us,
But still it keep fade in our heart.
Never stop playing, screeming, laughing,
It will carry your childhood with you.
We never and ever become older,
We all have an endless breathing and stages.
It can't take back and go back.
Look the world with child eye.
It seems more beautiful than anything.
Reminiscence of childhood were the dreams
That stayed with you after you woke.
Childhood is being carefully held like a glass.
My anguish wishes to be a youngster,
I want my souvenir back and
Blow it Up into a bubble and live inside it forever. ?
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 8:42 AM UTC
On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.
And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him.'
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
'What the divil and all is this christenin'?'
He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.
So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened —
''Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'
Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste,
'Come out and be christened, you divil!'
But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.'
'Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy — don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.
'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name —
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout —
'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!'
As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled 'MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!
And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'!
3.1k
don't get on my nerves
kiddo it
ain't your mother's
fault that you're
a sucker
daddys come like
torpedos
daddys are
torpedos
who are you though?
no sweet toddler
no child
no youngster
i don't give a **** about
you
i am your daddy kiddo
i am a torpedo kiddo
don't gimme that family
********
you ain't nothing but a
kiddo
fortyfive year old
hangaround
deadbeat
***
leech
you're the harmless
version
toothless dracula
couldn't care less
about you
Nov 16, 2019
Nov 16, 2019 at 3:17 PM UTC
What gave you your direction?
What made you want to write?
What ever was the reason
that saw you editing all night?
Perhaps you loved Lord Byron
or for you was Poe the man
or maybe Keats or Dr. Seuss,
with his green eggs and ham.
What had you writing poetry?
Who did you want to be?
The answer to that question
is an easy one for me.
You'll probably howl
when you hear of my choice.
He's hardly a Jane Austin
or Helen Steiner Rice.
And it wasn't Charlotte Bronte
who gave to me the thrill.
But a little fat comedien
with the name of Benny Hill.
As a youngster I remember
his rather raunchy rhymes
that some would look at with contempt
but they did that in those times.
I just remember that he creased me up
and I would laugh and laugh all day.
I would memorise and tell to friends
when we all went out to play.
As the years went on and I read the greats
everything grew in my mind.
I read and read my poetry
anything that I could find.
But of all the brilliant scholars
that have written and do still.
None will grace my heart and make me feel
like that poet Benny Hill.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
Ah, Pinocchio--povero burattino°--
Always in a scrape; always in a jam.
The irresponsible, wooden-headed numbskull
Couldn't help but fall for every scam.
A walking, talking stringless marionette,
Pinocchio really would have had it made
In a modest home with babbo°° Gepetto.
But, instead, the foolish youngster strayed.
Ignoring the advice of the talking cricket,
Pinocchio EVEN smashed it with a hammer.
That right there should have been a reason
To throw the little rascal in the slammer.
The Fox and the Cat had no trouble
Dissuading the puppet from going to school,
Thus involving him in a series of adventures
Which often made him look like a fool.
The Fairy tried to be a good influence,
But Pinocchio's lies caused his nose to grow.
Constantly ignoring responsibilities,
The misguided boy, suffered constant woe.
(Swindled of his money, hanged on a tree,
And saved just in the nick of time
From being eaten, Pinocchio had
Too many adventures to fit into this rhyme.)
Fleeing with his lazy school chum Lucignolo
To the Paese dei balocchi,°°° there Pinocc
Turned into a donkey. Of all his follies,
This one had to be a masterstroke.
Once again a puppet, Pinocchio was swallowed
By a giant Pesce-cane,°°°° and then guess what!
The foolish boy was finally reunited
With babbo Gepetto in the fish's huge gut.
NOT until Pinocchio thought about others
And proved he was an honest and caring boy
Did his fortune start to change for the better,
And the stringless puppet became the real McCoy.
Does Pinocchio by any chance remind you
Of any politicians out there at all
Who fail to listen to expert advice
And thumb their noses at common protocol?
And speaking of noses, we can also see
Politicians' noses grow as they tell lies.
Lying to themselves and to others as well
And ignoring our best interests and flouting compromise.
Such politicians--unlike Pinocchio--
Have strings to pull when performing for the masses.
The more they avoid solving REAL issues,
The more they end up looking like *****
They also love--these clever burattini--
To sell a bill of goods and promise many things.
But someone out there--or some corporation--
Is slyly and cleverly pulling their strings.
Do you ever wonder if these same politicians
Ever think about or care how you feel?
Will they eventually--as did Pinocchio--
Prove they have what it takes to be real?
°(burattino/i) - poor little puppet
°°(babbo) - dad(dy)
°°°(Paese dei balocchi) - Playland
°°°°(Pesce-cane) - shark
- by Bob B
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
Must you be here in such an interesting illusion?
Why must you sit in such... vogue?
Here though, you exist in fashionable cyst.
Bygone futures of blighted sutures
Youngster-stale and eight-hundred pale
Destitute pasts of layer passes present
Horses gather at the gates of heaven
Spitting at me
And in this way, I've given myself nightmarish feelings.
Yellow blocks provides battery-colored translucence a doubt of mortals
Tungsten belated harmony
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
conceited and overconfident of knowledge, but, poorly informed and immature
embodying the definition, I lie in bed, quiet, thinking,
face down, shirtless, in a pair of cheap purple *******
breathing in a smell--cotton sheets, sweat, and coconut
I am not nothing, not miserable, but not happy
I am not frightened or bewildered by anything
I am an elder amongst the young
I'm a youngster still, to everyone.
all trash talk,
not new news.
I just sort of quietly revel in the experiences
unravelling above me in a floating memory
adding up my mistakes,
until all pressed into me
+ that doing the right thing hurts, sometimes,
+ people are going to do things that you can't
and still that's okay, but don't get discouraged
if you work hard and get nothing out, that just
means something, that if you like it, fight for it
I don't know.
I also learned this year not to trust the bad liars,
that sometimes people are bland, but even still,
it doesn't mean death, and it's really going fine.
I learned this is as smart as I'm going to get,
so maybe I should try a little harder with it.
turning on my back, I flick an imaginary cigarette,
I put on a little blush + a long-sleeved black shirt
then I did what I was supposed to, maybe for me.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
The thing is Boy,
Yes, YES! I did need a shower this morning, and ****** lovely it was.
Aye cracking........
Let me tell you three things I got just right with my shower this morning.
First of it was HOT.
Not warm, definitely not lukers, as you said when you where a lad, but ****** lovely and hot.
Like the shower after a shift in The Pit.
Now, notice the capitals there, on The Pit.
Not to make it a loud word, I am simply showing due respect to The Pit.
I spent enough years down that colliery to show it that due respect.
The Pit indeed.
Secondly, there was enough water.
In my shower, not the mine now, pay attention!
It can be hard for folk to hang on to my words, I digress so much, hanging on to my words is like trying to grab a slimy mackerel on a sunny day at Porthcawl Pier.
Now that is a ditry pier, due to littering.
And fishing.
Speaking as a fisherman, with you will notice, a SMALL f, as I do not profess a great degree of skill in that area, but speaking as a fisherman, I will admit that there is an occasional tendency towards the dropping of litter.
On the pier, that is.
Quite likely elsewhere as well, but then I only fish the pier, see.
Anyway, yes, water.
Enough of it.
Not a ****** half-hearted trickle, an apologetic drip, but a deluge!
Fair flooded me out, it did.
****** marvellous.
Smashing.
Now, there was a third good thing.....
Ahh. THAT was it..
Someone to scrub my back.
Very important indeed.
You see, in The Pit, or at least, in the colliery shower, after a shift, we had good showers.
Hot, they were. Hot and wet, and we would stand there, warming ourselves under the water.
By Christ, my arms were sore after a day on my side with a pick.
And the soap was hard too, like a ruddy brick.
But the water helped see, took the pain away, it did.
Aye, and all the Boys, we would wash each others backs.
That was the way then.
In the showers.
Aye.
I new my mate's backs better than my missus'
Thirty years scrubbing them.
"Whiter than white" I would say.
When they asked me.
"How is my back Bryn?"
"Whiter than white".
Aye
Good days.
Now this shower.
A ****** good one too, It was today.
The Girl who comes in got it just right.
Halfway between five and five and a quarter.
Bang on.
And she washed my back.
Not as hard as the boys would have done,
but good enough for a youngster.
Not bad at all.
All in all, a good shower.
And that means a good day.
I can wheel my chair to look out the front later.
You'll pardon me for going now,
but I have to go to the bathroom see.
A big ****** task for me now.
Still, no-one in till teatime, and I can manage,
if I take it slow.
And thursday I get another shower.
And I will tell you about the days in The Pit again.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 6:57 AM UTC
You were one of the first to teach me about value.
You helped me gain independence, little by little.
I shared my desires with you and you helped me to fulfill them.
Sometimes I needed just that little bit more and there you were,
Ready to pitch in and help out.
I remember a smile breaking onto my face with the very glimpse of you,
Your shining face gleaming at me from afar.
Sometimes those you thought were your friends would just toss you away,
But not me, not ever.
I cherish you for everything you are worth and then some.
You have always been unique, different than all the rest I would come across.
You have your own look.
Yes, you may look similar to others in one way,
But with a quick flip you are shining again like only you can.
Time may tarnish your gleam, but no matter how rugged you get you will always be of worth.
Special childhood moments come back to me now.
Holding you in my sweaty little palm, I would fill with excitement
Knowing you were about to deliver to me the sweetness of my dreams.
All I needed was you and maybe a few more of your friends.
And off we’d go to spend a Saturday afternoon in delightful company.
Seniors would push you away, unwanted, undervalued.
They would take one quick glance to see if they recognized you.
Then they would pass you on to a youngster,
As if they had far too much of you to care for more.
But not me, I would swoop you up and run off, delighted.
Now you are to be no more. No replacements.
You will be allowed to discolour and erode with age as so many of your ancestors have done.
But to me, you will always be the highly valued shining copper penny
Who taught me to count, to value goals and how to use money to attain some of them.
And most importantly, how to take the first steps towards my independence.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
Oldest thing I ever did see,
Skin a mountain range of
Crumpled/crinkled crepe paper
Peaking in altitudinous pouches
Under his eyes, dragging with
Their weight dewlapp jowls
Down to a waddling,
Flabby neck, eyes camouflaged
Under light, fuzzy swatches of cotton,
Mouth slack and vacant, dribbling.
Hobbling with a stoop, knees bowed,
Back arched at an angle, a
Tilted arrow. He tottered over to me,
Inches, feet, miles, years too young,
Smiled brightly to reveal an empty,
Gummy mouth rimmed with
Birthday cake, pallid arms
Outstretched, head splotched with
A thin, wispy cloud of hair,
Half-full and forgotten baby’s bottle
On the carpet behind him.
How quickly they do grow.
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 12:18 AM UTC
My dog died a couple of weeks ago,
I guess.
She's sitting in a small box in my mom's room now
with a small statue of a mischievous fox
and a photo of her golden snout
on top.
I didn't go to see her the last
several times I was in town
which means I didn't see her at all
for months before she died.
Maybe that's why
I haven't cried until now;
I don't deserve the consolation of sorrow.
I call her my dog because I was
the youngster that necessitated a dog in 2000,
nothing more.
But Mali was my dog.
I had to google map it to remember
where in Africa, but Mali was a good name:
A trite sound with an unusual source.
In the end it was too appropriate,
An arid name for a sandy dog
that died too weak to get water
and too alone to have it brought to her.
For days.
When we brought her home all drugged and tiny,
with Dumbo ears and lion paws,
I wouldn't leave her side for days,
eating and sleeping next to her on the floor,
until I started feeling down.
My mom told me it was like postpartum.
How stark a contrast between her coming
and her going!
She still looked like a puppy to me
the last time I saw her,
though she moved more slowly.
Whenever I see home again, months from now,
We'll take her ashes to the creek
and avail them of the wind
and the water she loved.
My dog and my Park,
both long neglected,
relegated to that past that
you can cry for but never reinvest in.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
Hershey, black satin, as long as my torso
Diamond green comforting eyes
Velveteen curious nose
Tongue like a pumice stone
Her elegant but waddling stride
Powerful, confident and territorial
Sitting like a queen on her throne
Cat of mine, mother to be
Tuxedo, black and white, bow tie and all
White sock covered feet like satin gloves
Long white elderly whiskers
He reminds me of Fred Astaire
Quick calculated light on his feet
Shy yet debonair
Patient, watchful and full of pride
Father to be
Oreo, friend and foe
White as snow, black face and tail
Large circular patches of black
Fearless fence and roof climber
Youngster full of mischievousness
Paws in the air, tummy exposed to the sun
Purring so loud she vibrates
Kitty of mine
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 6:14 AM UTC
I want to adopt an old-timer,
A jolly, kind old fellow,
His socks would never match,
And his sweater would be yellow.
He would tell me stories,
About the good ol’ days.
We’d inch around town,
In his 59 Chevrolet.
We would go fly-fishing,
And he’d wear flannel tops.
He would call me youngster
And I would call him Pops.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 1:32 PM UTC
Fighter jets in formation
Above Ekeberg Hill
Remind me of years
Spent on airbases
During my time in the
Royal Norwegian Air Force.
I was stationed at NATO's
Northernmost base during 9/11.
Minutes after plane #2,
I was upgraded to
NATO Top Secret
Clearance.
Given live ammo for my P80.
Witnessing the colonel's
Marlboro Light shake in his
Usually steady hand as I
Approached; MSO briefcase
Handcuffed to my wrist.
There were papers inside
I was expected to
Die for.
I was 22.
Not even the police carry
Firearms in this country.
Not even the police are expected
To give up ghost over information.
For a nation of such ******
History, we maintain a mellow
Attitude.
We choose peace over "piece".
Gun-sense over violent nonsense.
Naïve? Maybe.
There are nearly no shootings here.
We've had one lethal act of
Terrorism since WWII.
We can live with that.
Literally.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
Him: She looked different, I hadn’t seen her face this bright in a really long time. In that moment she was the moon, the star, a luminous soul that stood before my eyes. She was like confetti, leaving sparkles where she stepped. It wasn’t like the happiness she plastered on her face or the smile that made dimples appear on the ends of her lips. This was different. I could feel the energy.
Her cheeks swallowed her eyes whole and those hidden teeth behind her lips were exposed. It was just everything about her, how her voice was powerful and high-pitched just like a youngster. The way her pupils dilated and showed all her excitement. The way her soul radiated excitement and joy. It was everything about her, the way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she laughed. Happiness made her feel like she could do anything. Happiness was more than just beautiful on her. It was luminous and powerful.
Her: This happiness felt ineffable. It was more than just a star lighting up in the dark, it was more than the darkness fading away. It wasn’t the happiness that is supposed to be picture perfect or the commercially perfect of having pearly white teeth. It was the one that my soul roar and bursting away from the confinement. It was the happiness that made adrenaline rush through my veins and neurons spark every cell of mine. It was the happiness that made me not care about what others thought, whether I was too much or over-excited. I was happy, I was more than happy after a very long time. It didn’t matter to me. I felt fierce. I felt like a child. I felt everything beautiful and powerful. I didn’t want to lose it to others words or to anything in this world. I was going to protect it, guard it and hold on to it. I was going to shine and radiate.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 11:54 AM UTC
I have 2 recient guys i was seeing....
One is old and should be or act like a normal adult...
the other is younger and sort of wild and fun.....but a youngster..
the youngster acts more like an adult then the adult does....
How sad is that (for the old man?)
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
Kiley in italics
Just Kyle in regular text
Spencer and Kyle in bold
And so it begins...
At poets I laugh
Silly boys with their rhyming
here I sit smiling
gracefully moving
She smiles at my poem
I smile at hers.
She burns all my books
I cry all the time, never over
She is my new fav
I cry when books burn,
Angrily **** those who burn
Even my new faves
She giggles all day
*try to **** but always fail*
She will live forever
None live forever
Though the war will never end.
We're back in the game
You silly little
youngster and second class guys
I will always win
Powerful, she is
yet she has less "class" than we.
She cannot beat us
two plus three is five
Indeed, but two men do not equal
that of one woman
In their clutter'd brains
Women make odd equations
that just make no sense
men cannot add things
men will never understand
the ways women speak
When girls start to speak
All we hear is rabble ra-
bble rabble rabble
Open up your ears
You have lost this game today
*I'm done and win, *****
Kiley exits
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 3:43 PM UTC
Fantasy dream; caught in the between of reality
caught in these nets of generation’s imagination.
Desiring self *** appeal,—only the ones who’ve got
the guns for creation. Violence runs the streets;
a marathon of the fatherless kids brought into the world.
Tell them not to be bent out of shape if you dare, but
any blow of the wind causes them to fold.
Tender kisses of mama; spoiled a child:
Rotten as blackened teeth holes of the sweetest treats,
a long while since a tame domesticated the wild.
This child! Has only witnessed domestic violence all
of their life. Stepped on stepfather; beating the daylights
out of them every night.
Seeking approval; where the approved are only the kids
who break the rules. “There goes the youth,“
they’d often say. Unknowingly the same band of troubled
young mother’s go on their knees each night to pray.
But you’ll just bat an eye away from them;
ignore a present problem, still looking to a future’s gain.
Or take advantage of a youngster, then claim
their misconduct being only by an upbringing
as to blame. __Where are the men?__
_To show a son how to love and respect,_
_a daughter a hand of gentle protection,_
_Teaching lessons of wisdom never to forget,_
_not of their words becoming a weapon._
_To not settle for less when there’s always a best,_
_don’t let the shortest sad times become a deep long depression._
In the end what will our future be;
if we’re not being the future we’ll leave for
our young to follow,
Don’t glance at it with wallow,
build yourself strong,—build that strong
tomorrow.
Jun 9, 2022
Jun 9, 2022 at 9:15 AM UTC
A Mother's Sorrow (Pieta)
The sweet reggae music slapped inside the head
Echoes throughout the night
A gang of youngsters argument escalated vowing to killed all polices
The marijuana smoke rises to sky in a timely manner to the
The new dance choreography movements which cause a stampede
As the Queen of the dance hall movements reign like fire
Suddenly, they blades came out of nowhere
Aiming at the homosexuals on the dance floor
Piercing their hand upwards the homos desperately defense themselves
Frantic cried in the night; this is not right.
A youngster grabs his side as he slowly fall to ground
The heartless crowd echoes the lyric
Man down man! **** down!
The party music continue louder than every
Intoxicated females held on to their dates
(Mother of Sorrows) mother of sorrows
Unlike the modern Pieta a mother cradles her only son.
His body slumped to the ground
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
Isolation the main cause of a person’s dread
The monster abandoned like a child in a dumpster
The monster or beast with those seven heads
Created bigger than 7 feet but still a youngster
Soon enough it just became a killer
It used the night time as its cover
It came out at night like thriller
The only thing it wanted was a lover
Love of course, being its buried treasure
If he couldn’t have a wife then no one could
Killing my beautiful wife gave it pleasure
While spying with a family it worked with wood
The hideous creature with a warm heart
Maybe me creating it was a mistake from the start
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 11:20 PM UTC
Take it from me youngster, figuratively
I literally have no possessions
But surely learn from your mistakes
More of less of those encounters
More experiences without the hate
Alive and happy thankful just to be
So youngster now take it from me,
My experiences stand ahead you...
Live life for the truth of you,
There is serenity in being happy
Real joy is honest a being
Who exudes the love of Life, a light
That is the truth of You know Who
Soul that is a River
Doubtless we began, now to see
The construct of brotherly peace,
A lovely existence without this drowning pearl
The suffocation of our miracle world
Take it from me, youngster
You only rob yourself of illumination
I've been stealing from my own me?
If nothing else no one will dispair
When no one cares to wake
Time will cease, when no one watches
Pay close attention to the joy,
The life you have pretended decoy
Live like you love to live your life,
Truly utterly free
Breathe each minute passing
With thankful joyful and sincerely
Returning the gift of chi
Most positively the peace we send out
Just be mindful youngsters,
We make our own hells mouth
Chose to be enlightened
Be youthful and truly speak freely
Alright youngster ? take it from me
I wish you everlasting
Peace.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
The many emotions I feel right now is insanity
It is too much to be able to contain inside oneself
Especially for such an inexperienced youngster like me
As these emotions make this life extremely tough
The sadness enveloped in me is starting to escape
It’s slowly breaking through, creating havoc on life
I don’t know how much more I can possibly take
Until these emotions cut my life apart like a knife
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
He was conceived by two
Junkies and if you do
The math it equals one
Monkey,
Wild little youngster; sold
Dope On the corner and
Bourne in a dumpster
To his enemies he's a
Thief, murderer some one
Who knows no better,
but
To friends he's classified
A real go getter,
And would **** you if
You came between him and his cheddar,
He walks with love and hate
On his heart, and when he's feeling one you can't tell
Em apart,
He was Bourne into the life
Doomed from the start,
Felt life's bite but didn't
Heed life's bark
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
Bite the bullet.
A muddy boot,
A ****** boot
In the pimpled
Face of Some kid;
The barking
Goes on.
And they ask
Why I do not
Care, and I
Just shrug;
The barking
Goes on.
Hunger in the
Streets and in
Their media-
Rotted minds;
The barking
Goes on.
Faces split at
The seams, eyes
Peering At the
Scenes and I wonder;
The barking
Goes on.
The youth they
Snort and cuss
And the joints
Are passed around;
The barking
Goes on.
Birdshot in a
Brother's eye,
A blind dove
***** its wings;
The barking
Goes on.
And they ask
Why I do not
Cry, and I
Just shrug;
The barking
Goes on.
The poor get
Even poorer as the
Man on television
Shouts and moans;
The barking
Goes on.
Droopy eyes lost
Their spark as the
Fire dies and we
Linger in the dark;
The barking
Goes on.
A youngster jailed
For a bag of hash,
As an old man rubs
A girl half his age;
The barking
Goes on.
And I bite the bullet,
And I bite the bullet
And hail the beard
And hail the stars;
And the barking
Goes on!
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 3:36 PM UTC