Poetry 3 - Transient Hopes

Transient Hopes

Still young and lively, yet fallen. A drooping plant, not dead.

At fourteen, I was going to change the world.
I spoke aloud, thought against the grain of cultural stupidity,
fought stifling teachers with the once revolutionary words
of my punk rock verses.

The next year came — nothing changed.
I still wore that crappy orange school shirt as uniform,
still dealt with the global problems that I wanted to fight,
and I couldn't risk another suspension — not in vain;
no martyr would die without the definite assurance of a promised social change.

If you want to change the game, then you have to play it.
So I played, and so it goes.
Now, three years later, my black shirt has been bleached white.
I did well all year, did not rebel, kept my unacceptable words in check.
I still try for change.
Hoping that life for the world and its constituents will build up, rather than break itself down.
I still project a decent vision around me, and still work towards it, as I wither under the weather of the world.

But as honest as that last corny line is,
inside of me, are broken values and bitterness.
Worst of all, is the appealing abomination that hides on my back:
apathy.

Poetry 2.5 - Limerick

Dinosaur Arm Blues:

There once was a dinosaur with small arms -
He couldn't hug or set off fire alarms.
During emergencies, the dinosaur would cry.
His reach was shorter than a boxing fly.
In the end, he grew long arms with Lucky Charms