Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Along the Road

Every year, another town,
another house -- not a home,

just a stop along our road.
A new school, new bunch of guys

to beat on me. As if I didn't
get enough of that already.

Did it make me what I am
or did I make it what it was?

Every forest has its paths,
though we may blaze them for ourselves.

Did the lad who was lost,
who learned to walk behind his wit

and his fists, always live there,
along the road to somewhere else?

Stephen Brooke ©2002

Another poem recovered from its heap of tattered notebook paper. A tad polished up for presentation but still, well, essentially bad personal poetry.

BTW, I like to occasionally add a disclaimer to the effect that I am first and foremost telling stories here at this blog and in my poems, and am quite willing to embellish the 'truth' in pursuit of a more meaningful truth. It is said that all biography is fiction and all fiction is biography and that certainly has its own ring of truth, doesn't it?

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