My Friend

These poems sing my song, The song that will never be sung. The life that seems a fairytale, will die. The life that seems like hell, will never pass by. The fire still ablaze in what seems everyone life, Is not even a flicker in my normal life. So I ask myself the fairytale question. To receive my moronic answer. My thoughts, My actions, are on a paper, While everyone else’s are lived out in social matrimony. There is no friend to the outsider, Lest the people inside open a door to him, But, our world, Our five mile world, Will have nothing to do with him. So friendly is a bed, pen, and paper when people are so cold. I write down my problems; My sad, pathetic problems, To re-evaluate the trek, But it is not yet over, And nearly much to go over. This world is a wasteland of animosity, And I am screaming, whispering, thinking that I need a hand of generosity. So as you ponder, pray, but you will never really succeed, Outstretch that old withered palm, Scorched by the fame of the land. Open a door to him. Extend, reach, stretch. Stretch out to the golden, emerald encrusted door knob. He is here, wishing for his turn, for his friend, Someone with that outstretched palm.