I wrote this one in my government class. I was trying to do something that was entirely free-form and yet still contained a definite rhythm.

Sitting silently, wondering where tomorrow is and why it hasnít come.
Looking at the sky abouve and wonder if the sun
is at the apex of its arc.
Deciding how to leave oneís mark
upon the world of dreams
and leave it all behind. Sometimes it seems
as if oneís breath
might be the death
of one so open and despaired
though who is left is a question not often dared
to be asked upon the lonely empty stage
that cleans your life as if a page
has been crumpled wrinkled torn
and thrown away to be reborn
into the sparkling novus mind that cannot think
to become a mind that cannot drink
the sweetest life
behind the closéd doors of strife
and sorrow.
The fortunate are those that borrow
and return the love that others
know too well only smothers
the feelings and hurt surrounding
at the least compounding
all that is lost to us here
and can never reappear

All contents Copyright © 1998 Joseph Davies