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?