They Were PoetsDay after day the young lament their losses Cries neverending of a neverending passion Release in word, song, and prayer. An abounding anguish: worthless, pointless The years will leave it just a memory A notebook lost with last week's Sunday paper Garbage. Passing. Fleeting.They Were Poets
Sing me no songs of love, they cry Their age becomes and bewilders them. The years bring senses, guilt, inhibition. The warmth of cocoa, The vigorous vitality of a coffee mug Are no longer symbols, but themes.
The wanton pleasures of a warm breeze mingling &n
C o o k i e J a r r e dC o o k i e J a r r e d
He wanted legacy - daddy's destiny in a jar on a desk ledger. It was black and well-shined and had cookie jar in red all over it.
His father was old-fashioned - it was written on bills set counter-top next to stove burners. Sometimes closer. He kept the walls whitewashed and soft: hygeine is cleaner than hydrogen.
Mother was not home; nine to five liberated, so proud of herself. Her dreams were of back-then backend highschool cars, leather coats and
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Jeff Ginger
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Have a wonderful day!
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Take my fucking hand... and never be afraid again - MCR
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