A Poet, I Am Not.

While looking through an old journal I came across a poem that I penned while living in Wales. I am definitely not a poet, so you will have to forgive the lack of skill. I left the shoddy formatting because that is the way I originally wrote it. I thought it was interesting how perfectly it took me back. Maybe I will start writing more poetry (not publicly) simply as a means of capturing memories.

Unnamed

I’ve been gone from home for so long,
I don’t know what “home” means.
An abstract idea inside a vague memory of emotions.

City, town, village; it’s all the same.
The streets I walk don’t need names.
They have gangs…
…of ignorant people.
Old or young it’s just the same.
Stupidity knows no age.

A cry for help is just a waste of time.
Because the people that can help are helpless themselves.
So I am left with hope.
Another abstract idea,
That I comprehend for just a moment.
Then I am left with a memory;
Emotionless.

Rhyl, North Wales
August 2004

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3 thoughts on “A Poet, I Am Not.

  1. Pingback: A Blog Post About Blogging for an Entire Year « Philip Chiappini

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