This poem, is not a poem
But an SOS for you; the lonely and the lost
On the island of misfit toys
...
The stars surrender to the dawn
Winking out to the new born day
Then Robin's raise a sterling chorus
greeting the rays in morns parade
...
The crime of the poor
Is that they cannot afford
The wealth to be cruel
...
A seed of hate
Is born in every man
And it germinates
When there's no water
...
Her daddy made a living in the pill game
Her mommy held down the family stash
They had a little kingdom in the St James
Where nobody could see her crash
...
It found me, nestled in the grass
by the clearing next to the church
This small foundling of kindling
A sturdy limb from a red maple
...
The field lies waiting
For the fresh slaughter
When tired teams huddle
Like desperate plotters
...
Never grow up
And never cave in
to that captivity called adulthood
That mangles your inner spark
...
Isn't it romantic?
To say you would die for someone
When the real hard work
Is having to live with someone?
...
Frostbitten from birth
No hands can hold me
All the doors have closed, and...
Every road leads to hell
...