something tells me I should write a poem
about our once-culture;
about being raised once upon a time
when only Steven King wrote about the end of the world,
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what about this once-culture? what was it
it once had a meaning, a vision, a platform reasonable and accessible;
it once offered a chance, to some, at some certain times—no, maybe not
everyone everywhere, but the word on the street
had a spark to it, and most all of us could feel it;
it told jokes, had humor, self reflected, took off its’ clothes
all for us, as though we deserved it—
and we did.
alas, we do not seem to anymore.
too many pharmaceuticals? too many street drugs? no real parenting? no hope for so many? wars? illness? God been dead too long? divorce? no chance for love? delinquency? too much tv? raped? abused? mind not stimulated? all of the above as the standard events in almost all of our un-blessed bodily, taxable lives? and above all,
our unawareness, our apathy, our very inbility to give a damn at all.
why might I write a poem? and how to make this one have a happy
ending, after all?:
I’m 36 years old and I still find passion in the people almost everywhere I go—despite our shortcomings, we still try. I try to evolve, to learn from mistakes, otherwise life is wasted, and there’s always time
to raise up one’s head and look around
and then look within and understand—there’s always time
till there isn’t,
and that might be why everyone is talking so much