I listen to them talk, Talk myself, Laugh where it is applicable, And become a little sadder, As the night ticks by. I keep all the old stories alive, Am the museum of my friends, And they come to listen at my feet. Come to hear of the old times, Of drunken days spent stripped of humanity, Only young people with damage in our hearts, Tasting excitement in shouted words, the brotherhood of country, Smoky bars and too loud music, Places where we didn't have to talk, Only storm the floor when we got courage enough. Of girls we could have had, Girls we should have had, And girls we did and then regretted. I sit and look at Dale, Dale, Who was always the first to scheme, to steel, to fight, And who broke his finger saving my life. I see Michael, Who tried to convince me Mars was a satellite, But was always the first to give me a ride. Glen who could play any sport, Now trapped in a dead end job, And feeling lucky about it. Steven B who never had any confidence, But all the arrogance to cover it up, Steven H who never felt accepted, So chipped at others to fill the tide, And Robert my first, my oldest friend, Who I used to get stoned with and laugh, Who is now a cop, And sees blood and death every other day. I sit and look and listen, The interminable night slowly winding down, The old stories stopping their flow, petering to a trickle, Then there is nothing else to say, And I feel the overwhelming sadness, as I always do, That for most of them, Not all, But most, Those years were the best of their lives, And for me, even worse, Because I recognise it, Those years were, are, The only way I ever could, Ever can, Relate to them.Birth sign: Virgo
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Sneak.