My Classification Changes all the Time
in the fifties I was an odd kind of beatnik.
I did not have a goatee; I was not Maynard G. Krebs
I was a hippie in the seventies, but not promiscuous.
But love, sweet love, I surely did believe in that.
And I was not crazy happy about the Vietnam War.
In the eighties, I heard my kind referred to as Bohemians.
We did things our way, not our parents; okay by me.
Now I a non-conformist, but most are who truly grow up.
Grow away, grow their own set of rules and values, right?
I will soon be old enough to be called eccentric.
Oh, I am there now?
Thank you my sweet.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
