[I think this piece of garbled notes hardly pass for poetry, but this is something I've written at my heart's calling. Forgive the pathetic over usage of certain words, my vocabulary isn't very vast at this time of the day (night, to be precise). I begin then, ahem...]
Inertia holds on to my muscles and fibres,
I’m wearing no jeans, just this sorry face,
Yes I’m wrinkled, withered, but not in thought,
Numbers do matter, the world does remind.
I’m an old, old man,
With a grand old beard,
With antique notions, do I face this world,
Like a minimal twig in the harsh winter gust.
My ma taught me this a tad long ago,
No, it’s not as if it’s just yesterday,
To be an uptight, young man when I be a grown up,
I am all that but young, and the world’s in denial.
I’ve had my time, they say, down here,
The material world for the fast runners,
Where wisdom is rather learnt the strenuous way,
Than being handed down from generations past.
Where monetary worth exceeds scruples,
And the head acts where the heart should have,
Where impulse is downed and pragmatism reigns,
Such a place they crawl over, calling it home.
My home’s out there somewhere,
In the profound pathways of time long gone,
What’s flexibility any good when conscience is lost?
And then they call me a grand old man.
Try to read between the lines, they say,
All in good time, good humor, they say,
But now I can see the real irony here,
I impose this hood of ancientness upon me myself.
And time passes me, one second at a time,
Constituting as it does to the lump down my throat,
And to brand myself as a grand old man,
I strive on and on in my very own tune.
-B.M
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