My Friend
These poems sing my song,
The song that will never be sung.
The life that seems a fairytale, will die.
The life that seems like hell, will never pass by.
The fire still ablaze in what seems everyone life,
Is not even a flicker in my normal life.
So I ask myself the fairytale question.
To receive my moronic answer.
My thoughts, My actions, are on a paper,
While everyone else’s are lived out in social matrimony.
There is no friend to the outsider,
Lest the people inside open a door to him,
But, our world,
Our five mile world,
Will have nothing to do with him.
So friendly is a bed, pen, and paper when people are so cold.
I write down my problems;
My sad, pathetic problems,
To re-evaluate the trek,
But it is not yet over, And nearly much to go over.
This world is a wasteland of animosity,
And I am screaming, whispering, thinking that I need a hand of generosity.
So as you ponder, pray, but you will never really succeed,
Outstretch that old withered palm,
Scorched by the fame of the land.
Open a door to him.
Extend, reach, stretch.
Stretch out to the golden, emerald encrusted door knob.
He is here, wishing for his turn,
for his friend,
Someone with that outstretched palm.
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