He's just a suburban
White boy
Trying to forget
He came from money
By singing a poor man's
Song
Strumming on his
$500 guitar
Sitting in his $40
T-shirt
He let's rock and roll
Breath through his soul
Stranger's memories
Tumble through his
Adolescent mind
Of times when
Money was scarce
Love was weary
Bad times were plenty
And
And people were so lonely
He grew his hair
Out long
Pierced his ears
Turned his mama's little catholic boy
Into a rock 'n roll song
He started talking
In music notes
Written by the gods
But they didn't sound fancy
On his rich tongue
They fell flat
His spirit was no
Velvet coat worn
Through the threads of time
No tear of beauty
He was a paper thin forgettable
With nothing to say
All it was
To him
Was sounds and stories
Of fairy tale people
There was no racing heart
Running with the melody
Keeping him alive
The rich boy was
To artificial to rock
His mechanical body
Lined with straight edges
And angles
Would never mold to
The curve
Of living life
Dirty and free
He would miss the charm
Of stable days
And rational minds
So little boy
Better stay inside
Because the real world
Is a terrifying mastermind
Of insanity
Infested with a wild disease
You only wish
You could catch
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories and Poems by Me
PoesíaEnter at your own risk. My mind over the years is displayed in here. ((PS: even my worst ideas get put in this log because it's my back up for everything I write. I apologize for the horror if anyone is reading this))
