that I've never sent
Filled with the thing that I
always meant
To say or do, or people
to thank
Then I looked
at the page
And I drew
a blank
There's a prodigal son
who won't return home
He says to himself
I like being alone
Alone he finds he's
a hypocrite
"Sometimes it's not my
clothes that have the best fit"
I wrote a letter to home
that I'm scared to address
I don't want to bring them here
this place is a mess
A cacophony consisting of
unending noise
And amongst the choir I'm
finding my voice.
David, I met you for the first time tonight. You spoke of your love of poetry. This piece shows your passion. I like this one a lot. I'll check back for more later.
ReplyDeleteThanks for writing,
Dan
Columbia Parents Weekend