Not the best poem in a contest by a long shot · 3:56am Feb 16th, 2020
F Major’s not a key I’d use
To sing a song of bliss;
Back in the day, if I’d done that
My notes would seem amiss.
Back in the day, I’d never go
And sit out on the roof,
Atop the school and play guitar;
I’d be far too aloof.
I’d hold in everything I felt
My sermons and confessions;
They’d never hurt me in my head,
And there’d be no concessions.
And now my thoughts and notes are gone
To wander where they may;
I’ve nothing else I’d rather do
Then freely waste the day.
It’s here or inside of my cage,
A perfect sanctuary;
My thoughts and I could linger there
And would - outside, it’s scary.
The eyes of passing strangers judge,
Their words full of convictions;
And rightly so - my inner self
Deserved their maledictions.
But that was then, and this is now;
I’ll sit and pluck my notes,
And let my fears evaporate
Until they’re naught but motes.
The capsule bottle at my side
Makes my sermons blurry;
My confessions, I rarely think
Of them and rarely worry.
The sun is bright, the sky is clear,
My memories, forgotten;
I didn’t need them anyway.
Those memories were rotten.
My bandaged hooves still play these notes,
F major’s grown on me;
I’d rather stick to skies and strings
Plucking a melody.
Not the best perhaps, but far from the worst. I enjoyed it!