SD ( / )

One Day

I heard there wasn’t more to life
than sitting,
peeling onions,
layer after layer

or sipping on hot chocolate
on a hot day

someone told me life was art
more of a collage, I thought,
pockets of paint thrown against
an unprepared canvas

concrete fields
was all I go to play in,
it hurt every time I fell down,
but who was I to complain?

didn’t they say they were doing
what was best,
for the people?

I heard one day of love
thought of it as childish infatuation
so I fell in, fell out
who was I to complain
about life?

One night I even looked
at a star,
couldn’t remember which one though
too many to wish upon,
and if I spent all my time looking
I’d forget to hear the cock crow in the morning,
forget it was time to go home
but who am I to complain about time?


Who am I?
I ask myself
sometimes
and forget
I was significant enough
to be born

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Comments (2)

My creative writing teacher suggested i write something along the style of Charles Bukowski so this is my feeble attempt to replicate a genius... that guy is amazing and this poem kinds of makes one think of serious undertone in poetry and straight forward realism..so as this is my first attempt please go easy on me..
Fine - respect! Thanks.