The Fires We Burn

I remember when I was a kid in the city

thought I had somehow stemmed the fire

that sense of an evident outlier mentality

haunted my mind forever life on a wire.

~

I began to age with a sense of forgiveness

for all those around me I might have hurt.

The person I always managed a swift miss,

my personality, like an old stain on my shirt.

~

I wanted only to live a life of some perchance

sense of wander that held creative lines

the sort we plead may always carry reliance,

even when times are tough, quiet whines.

~

I was a walking testament of self-proclaimed grief

I held my own in any audience though always brief

I was a walking testament of self-proclaimed grief

~

So I took to new travels only never leaving my mind

I could always find a way to survive the night

leaving behind all of the baggage I’d lest remind

if wanting to go forward with a living life I might.

~

I was a walking testament of self-proclaimed grief

I held my own in any audience though always brief

I was a walking testament of self-proclaimed grief

~

I wanted to find some new sort of glass of water

the one that didn’t ever contain a needy filter

~

I held my own in any audience though always brief.


© Thom Amundsen 7/2021

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