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Personal Note:

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Poem

They were twisting, shaking, breaking,and
mad.
The shattering of their minds went unseen,
and unheard.
They were the lost generation.
Spilling the remnants of their tattered souls,
out along with their whiskey.

They were running,
running from what they had done,
And from what they had failed to do.

The women in their knee length dresses,
dancing like they were warding off death.
The men in their spats and suit,
drinking like they wanted to drown.

They were running,
running from what they had done,
and from what they had failed  to do.

They had gone to war,
raced to it with burning hearts
and open arms. Ready for glory,
and greeted with death.

They were running,
running from what they had done,
and from what they had failed to do.

They lost something there.
In the trenches, on the fields.
Among the barb wire and the blood.
Something they never regained.

They were running, 
running from what they had done,
and from what they had failed to do.

Then, when it was over, 
they were sent home.
Either lauded as heroes,
or mourned as them.

They were running,
running from what they had done,
and from what they had failed to do.

The war followed them back.
It found them in every shadow.
In every sudden noise.
In every sharp move.

They were running,
running from what they had done,
And from what they had failed to do.

So they ran.
They ran to speakeasys, to dance halls, to back alleys.
They ran to drugs, to liquor, to people.

They were running,
running from what they had done,
and from what they had failed to do.

They ran themselves to death, 
And now? 
Their lives are all so much madness and glory on the wind.

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