That Poor Old Man
His eyes sagged
As his face lost the luster of youth
The white, rich face
Turned grey and lifeless.
He groans at night
Like he's having a bad dream
Maybe the people that forgot him at '43?
During the day
You can hear his creak
How he finds the will to stand up at his age is a mystery.
His only company, the newly dead leaves
That glide gracefully to their seasonal graves,
The porch is over run by cannibalistic villains
The competition for life is fierce
as they shake their leaves at one another while the wind swims by.
I watch the branches fall on his head
And wonder why he doesn't give up.
Yes, I am mad.
But not mad
But all have been too blind to see
Yes, I am
And I will not deny
That my brain has slowly turned
Into a never ending parade of juxtaposition
My thoughts nothing more than a swirl
Of ambition and color.
Colors only Indigo children can see
In my wisdom
I lost my sanity
I won't deny this very eloquent fact
I will stay mad
But this world
I find much madder than myself
Psycho Pseudo Drama
Every time I think I'm lonely
There's always someone that needs to call
All the chatter and the hatred
Needs to be cast to the stars
And I sit hear listening to your news
The time ticking by
And shot up to the stars
You ask me to go to lunch
And we sit
My time ticking away
Among the stars
Your mother hates you
and wants you to clean
your friend is sleeping with your boyfriend
Your dad won't let you borrow the car
I'm about to stuff my empathy into a sack
and leave you the bill
Your teenage angst
Is killing me
I've heard it all before
I'll tell you what to do
I'm sure you have the answer.
Copyright © 2009 Rebecca Russo