Bricks that taste of earth and mud-
I licked them, it was a dare
The stale beer and puke and toasts-
"Here's to life without a care!"
All my dreams inevitably lead
To growing white hairs beneath the linden tree
My brother left, with haste, with speed
Complaining that or else, he'd never be free
(He was right)
He wasn't
(He was right)
He wasn't
What might have been ambition
Is tangled in tall, unchecked grass
Buried in freshly tilled soil
Smeared on bird-poo stained glass
It doesn't feel like a prison, sitting alone because
Your friends all dance in the nearest town
The formula of response to current events-
"Those big guns in city just need to calm down."
(They don't)
They do
(They don't)
They do
Enviably idyllic.
Truly bucolic.
(But now I'm old, and I can never be free.)
Shut up
(But now I'm old, and I can never be free.)
SHUT UP!
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A/N: Attempted to incorporate a word I recently learned into a poem.
YOU ARE READING
Anarchy
PoesíaAnarchy. A swirl of topics: emotions, allusions to history, social issues... And somewhere in the maelstrom comes forth rhymes and prose. Note: If you can't be bothered to read all the poems (quite understandably), I've starred the better ones.
