Talent Poem by James McLain

On those rainy day's alone.
No one can tell you where you are going,
but where
you have been, other's have gone.

Stories told by they who have gone on before
you, saves one time
if by the telling you draw them in.

Life, death and love are a proper good
place to start on,
loss as well without loss one can not
properly measure what one has to say.

Become a hard women by staying soft,
and lend him a breast for the man that is hard
but soft in heart.

To the young:
Measure your friends, by their manner of speech
And if your speech is proper they will learn.
Verily on the out side looking in say nothing
they will tell you all.

To the pretty girl's:
Pretty your scent the stuff you are made of
will through misuse crack and stay dry.
Bragging about what you had and the rocks you
have held and then moving on to greener pastures.

And that thing you are afraid of
Will look at you, from every angle with his
one good eye.

All are young, all grow old and in-between
some will die,
unnecessary deaths from drinking
and driving unable to deal with childhood trauma
and overdose on drugs your mother bought you.

Whilst you live and are fresh and randy, being young
and not fussy but lusty remember those stories
that you heard and ignored, roaring at the top of your
lungs, I'm immortal and in hell I'll be found.
Amongst the living dead.