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Best Poems Written by Robert Burke

Below are the all-time best Robert Burke poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Mother Dear

Two am and something's gone wrong here.
It looks like I have drank all my wine, "I'm so thirsty", I can't
wait for tomorrow.
No shame, I shall drink Listerine.
Six am, this drink has me weary, I'm wasted, but my well has run dry.
To the liquor store, I walk down to the corner, I'm early and it's raining but I still wait there outside.

Mother dear, I am sorry I failed you, but your son has a thorn in his side.
When I was young you had such expectations, intentions, were not for you to cry.
Father sir, tell me why did you leave us?
A coward, man you ran off to hide.
I'm sorry sir that I never have met ya.
But if it were now, well, you surely would die.

Throughout my life I have made many wrong turns, I found my way although I cheated and lied.
I hurt someone who once told me she loved me,
and burnt the bridge as I left her behind.

The days are long as my train travels slowly,
closer, toward the end of it's line.
I made my choice and stand by my decision.
Denying remorse but with tears in my eyes.

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The Hell I Call Home

All alone here I sit, in this hell I call home.
With no motivation to silence these moans.
There's junkies in the next room, and tweekers below,
outside on the street, a whore with no one to blow.
There's a crackhead with a pit-bull, and a toddler in tow
she's looking to score, but the gangster says "no".
She curses and shouts as she heads down skid row, to
the mark on the Drew, who's been known to hold blow.

Down the staircase I'm winding out and onto the street
with Cecillia as my anchor, we step to the beat.
I stagger or swagger,
it depends who I meet.
I'm off to see Mary, and the kids on King street.
When I get there it's early and the kids are asleep.
Their chemical consumption has altered their beat.
The street is deserted and I feel like a creep.
Ya, I'm fitting right in, in this hell I call home.

So  I'm off to the station, with a head that can't think.
I curse the men with the money, and the ice in their drinks.
And the ones who reign judgment?  I don't care what they think.
All I need is my escape from this hell I call home.

I arrive at the station and my mans at the booth. 
I approach him and ask with the slang that is couth.
He fixes me up and I get high as the roof.
Another lost Thursday morning, in this hell I call home.

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Bad Dope

Tick tick tick tick tick tick,
tock tock tock talk talk talk.
As hard as I try, this
rhythm won't stop.

I beg and I cry, but
the clock won't comply.
I have twelve different questions, but
get the same old reply.

And the medicine, I take,
to cure this disease,
just adds to the problem.
Enhancing unease.

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Thursday On Th Bloor Line

It's hell trying to think,
the welds do distract.
As the train travels over the seams of it's track.

In my head Howard swears, that he'll never be back!
My eyes follow a vagrant,
seeking the change that he lacks.

Another desperate attempt,
at another desperate attempt.
To save another days worth of memories,
I'll never get back.

I'm not too sure if I want them.
But I'm scared to forget,
so I pressure my pen,
to avoid the regret.

Thursday on the Bloor line

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Border Gaurds and Warrants

I don't want to drink this day away, I'm going to do it anyway.
I don't want to do any drugs today,
but I got an itch I can't scratch away.


I'm breaking promises I made to someone else,
when I was desperate and needed help.
I looked up to the skies above, and asked a stranger for some love.
The stranger had some love to spare, he set me free and paid my fare.

I thanked the stranger for his gift,
assured him his gesture would not be missed.
But I forgot him by the turn,
I'm headed south and I'll never learn.

I walked into a liquor store, snatched a bottle and drank some more.
I found a rube and copped some dope,
I got too high now I just can't cope.
I'm having trouble dealing with this thing.
I have a heavy heart but a song to sing.