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.
Copyright © Brenton Scobee | Year Posted 2007
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