Poet In Exile
We live are words and if not were just typing.
Ive come to a crossroads understanding little or nothing of the game
but knowing my place has been taken.
No longer in demand I sit with the other burnt out writers looking
back with grand dellusion and litlle hope for my return.
The dark waters of a uncertain tommorow overshadow the past glory
and future failures of my existance.
The last round poured the new gaurd will be here tommorow.
And as you pass the ones toblind to see as you've become to
jaded to feel you realize.
To live the words failure is a must for no agnst is true without
a glimmer of hope.
I stay ahead of the verse like a pool waiting for the tide.
Now in a place once called home I find strangers in old faces
shadows cast dark figures in alleys all lost for the better day.
But im no judge just a exile forced to carve a nitch
outta his same old space.
To tired to care yet still to ego ridden to leave.
Im a exile to friends who live next door.
They hammer the walls laughter takes there nights.
Im locked in only with memories to recall.
The smoke trails across the empty room of my mind.
Like some old stories ghost I merely haunt this worn down shell.
Copyright © John Patrick Robbins Aka Gonzo | Year Posted 2010
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