Teenage Hooligan: An Original Poetry Chapbook

The Fisherman

August 27th, 2020
16 Years Old

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Sometimes I wonder if I will ever need anything more than you.
Your smile curls up to the right, like an autumn leaf I crunch under my feet.
And your voice is as sweet as angels.

Your mere presence melts away all my worries,
And I ponder how I'd grab my chance before it leaves.
It's about as likely as catching a fish with bare hands.

You can look into the water, and try to trace it's figure.
But vision is distorted and by the time you go for it,
It's gone into another lake.

Eventually someone better equipped will find it.

Why should a mere fisherman, with no bucket, no rod
Expect to catch something so agile, so smooth.

With scales that shimmer, catching my eye.
The parking lot is filled with men, joyous men.
Comparing fish and laughing over a beer.
Noticing me, but never saying anything.

Their presence is enough pity for anybody.

I have nothing but dead, rotted sardines in my name.
A fisherman with no fish.
A fisherman with no man, no will, no reason to be at the lake.

The fish is there everytime I arrive.
Ponders, glimmers, gives me hope.
All for it to slip away again and again.

I wish I had enough confidence to use a rod,
Something much easier and obvious.
But I'm not sure if you will grab on and be mine
Or lose any trust in me you might have had at all.

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