Cycles

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Cycles


It all seemed so easy, born with a plan

My father, he said to me

Work hard and you’ll sit at the hand

Well I never worked all too hard

To be the lying mess that I am

And God knows I never took the time

To fully understand

Life is a cycle

And I’m caught on the down end

Breathing in the clouds of smoke I idly sit in

 

From the ashes rises a man

That floats upwards towards the sky

He looks down upon me

And waves goodbye

He travels upon beams of light

That burst out from within

I’d say something to him

But I'm caved in

 

It all seemed so familiar, like your face in the stands

That kept me believing in the man that I am

So I finally loosen up the tight rope from around my neck

And step down not to forgive, and not to forget

I fight for the upward curve, no empty promises


 

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Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

BlackLabel’s Poems (51)

Title Comments
Title Comments
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