The Ghost
It was her, when she took my heart
and the boy was lost and she went on,
God knows where
Tell me, why she had gone
left that boy in a runt
going on a hunt
put forth the dying call
to see her somewhere in the mall,
buying dresses and summer clothes,
seeing people taking blows.
feeling lost, cancer eating away,
dealing with the pain trying to give way,
can't go on and pay the bill,
for free-will is gone,
and me and her are done.
God, you put some people in my life,
you make them lie,
you make them cheat,
you have me beat.
The fags,
the whores,
the poets,
everyone you put has a toll,
and they all take a toll on my life,
fly a kite
in the park
on a sunny day,
when thunder and lighting strike,
what an image to see a little boy get struck down,
and have everyone record him, instead of helping him.
The ghost, I am,
the boy I am,
the poet I am,
the beat generation I am,
the dirty realist I am
and even the hopeless romantic I am,
I once was a believer,
a wish maker,
but now I just go with the flow,
unrecognized by eyes,
like a ghost,
a spirit of poetry.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2014
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