08-29-2014, 05:29 AM
When I was young,
spilling over with inky passion
and too sprite to feel a duty to cap it,
I wanted to write about my generation.
I wanted to sing with an upbeat heart,
a peacock pen
and the pretense that protest was new.
I wanted to ‘Howl’.
Now, maybe of lesser ideal,
I draw a sharp, new brown crayon
from my box of brightly coloured stubs,
and intend to scribble through the night.
I swear, my friend, if I get it just right,
I’ll find the juice in these legs
to run –
and nail it at All Saint's door –
before the last dawn,
before crayons are outlawed for good.
spilling over with inky passion
and too sprite to feel a duty to cap it,
I wanted to write about my generation.
I wanted to sing with an upbeat heart,
a peacock pen
and the pretense that protest was new.
I wanted to ‘Howl’.
Now, maybe of lesser ideal,
I draw a sharp, new brown crayon
from my box of brightly coloured stubs,
and intend to scribble through the night.
I swear, my friend, if I get it just right,
I’ll find the juice in these legs
to run –
and nail it at All Saint's door –
before the last dawn,
before crayons are outlawed for good.