Another "poem from the past" that I found and really can't believe I wrote it. I don't remember writing it, but I never would print someone else's poem on my Facebook without giving them full credit, so I must have written it. Another shorty but sweetie!
Alien Backpackers
and yell and scream and shout about
"How unfair you are, you fuckin’ bastard!"
I sleep well, though, when I sleep.
The sleep of a dead man who hung himself
out to dry during the winter months
and didn’t allow anything, anyone
to get in the way of his self-employed misery.
By degree we all must suffer the dead things
that live inside our tiny but quite tidy heads
and won't allow us (who sport a conscience)
one moment, one single dull moment of peace.
But I'm afraid I've lost the choo-choo of thought
I started this poem off with. But does it matter
if words mean nothing, describe nothing,
amount to nothing more than an aging hope
that someday alien backpackers will stop by
and read this poem and say, "Damn,
now that guy, he could write!"
Woodie 11-21-13 (rewrites 11-21-15)
Alien Backpackers
Friends
come and go and come and go
and dreams do too but they don't slam doorsand yell and scream and shout about
"How unfair you are, you fuckin’ bastard!"
I sleep well, though, when I sleep.
The sleep of a dead man who hung himself
out to dry during the winter months
and didn’t allow anything, anyone
to get in the way of his self-employed misery.
By degree we all must suffer the dead things
that live inside our tiny but quite tidy heads
and won't allow us (who sport a conscience)
one moment, one single dull moment of peace.
But I'm afraid I've lost the choo-choo of thought
I started this poem off with. But does it matter
if words mean nothing, describe nothing,
amount to nothing more than an aging hope
that someday alien backpackers will stop by
and read this poem and say, "Damn,
now that guy, he could write!"
Woodie 11-21-13 (rewrites 11-21-15)
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