(no subject)
Dear Journal,
Here's an all right poem.
Farewell, Old Timer
Times had changed so much,
Since he had been away.
He didn't know if he was supposed to go forward,
Or root his feet and stay.
He was given a half home and a half job,
But he was used to being proper,
So now he felt like a slob.
He had no friends,
Except for the birds.
He'd stop by to feed them once in awhile,
When his hands didn't hurt.
Alone in his room at night,
He'd sometimes wake up and cry.
It took him awhile to realize,
That his new life was a lie.
Dressed in his best suit,
He stood on a table,
A noose around his neck.
He took out his knife and carved his name,
Upon the wall.
With the sudden happiness he felt,
He didn't even feel himself fall.
Here's an all right poem.
Farewell, Old Timer
Times had changed so much,
Since he had been away.
He didn't know if he was supposed to go forward,
Or root his feet and stay.
He was given a half home and a half job,
But he was used to being proper,
So now he felt like a slob.
He had no friends,
Except for the birds.
He'd stop by to feed them once in awhile,
When his hands didn't hurt.
Alone in his room at night,
He'd sometimes wake up and cry.
It took him awhile to realize,
That his new life was a lie.
Dressed in his best suit,
He stood on a table,
A noose around his neck.
He took out his knife and carved his name,
Upon the wall.
With the sudden happiness he felt,
He didn't even feel himself fall.