Sometimes when I go through my old poetry, I wonder what inspired me to write. Judging by the date I left on this one (I don't usually leave notes or other indicators) I'm going to have to guess I wrote this about the same time that I had read Oliver Twist in sixth grade.
Cold
My feet shuffle along
right down this open road
with the houses spaced apart
lined up, but no light showed.
I, a lonely beggar
roam the streets with all my needs
But only one thing I look for
so I stagger on planting seeds.
Every window sees me
as I pass slowly by
My hair in my face
as I try not to cry.
Rejection
at every turn
Dejection
I have learned.
I beg for only one thing
that I’ve never had
But I get along
just surviving isn’t that bad.
But the crying doesn’t fill
the hole
There is no one here
yet to fill the role.
He’ll be tall and strong
and love me
She’ll be smart and sweet
joined we’ll be.
I haven’t found them yet
but I haven’t passed their house
Because the light would’ve been on
and I would’ve entered
quiet as a mouse.
