So this is just a rough draft of a poem I began the other day. I don't know... I'm trying to avoid cliche and give off a new tone, one that perhaps depicts a different sense of perception of aging and hope.
Old/Infamous (tentative title)
You're famous to nobodys.
Your hands block the sun from your face
and cover up your identity like being spotted,
motionless, at a loss, in the crowd.
Your mouth says nothing while
your body is limp.
I don't want to get old but
I'm already a twenty-two year old senior citizen,
aged by nothing more than a laden world.
We can no longer blame the sun and weather.
We can only blame pot holes, old matress springs, dirty
coffee cups and short fuses.
I will toast to the origins of my infamous providence, and
salute them as my life flashes before me on my way (in)to hell.
-jon paul rebello
CEO of North American Scum, Inc.
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2 comments:
i'm liking it man. marching gleeful up in that parade. I heard good things about you getting a job too. hopefully it works out.
i dig it man. I like the line that starts we can only blame... a lot, nice use of the everyday mundane. good shit. keep it up man.
kt
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