Monday, October 26, 2015

Poet - by Bob Atkinson

(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

who is this masked man pontificating
about this silly world of ours
he seems so pompous, overbearing
in his pushing of strange causes

why does he feel he knows truth
when billions know more than him
why does he laugh at those souls
who with so many sardines swim

why does he try to change this world
in ways only he can see
why does his heart cry out in pain
when people aren't freed

well, taking something from a past
where all stood a lonely vigil
to create our world in its entirety
working fingers bony, brittle

gives meaning to some lonely souls
who only wish for good
and cry at gruesome outcomes
engaged by dopey fools

one feels so intensely pained
when cornered for an answer
something wished for in a dream
as if a subject mastered

we feel more in control
when we put our thoughts in print
makes one think before the act
of jabbing keys for sentiment

so now in my lonely room
will write these words of mine
even though nobody else
will find them good in time

to be so useful to a world
where ideas sit on the top of heads
and generate such movements
as to advance a theme ahead

words must form ideas in clear air
where everybody can relate
to themes with passion openly
brought forth to soothe the hate

hate brought on by selfishness
a simple thing so cruel
something given by nature
returned as an unused tool

we don't need this thing no more
don't need to hate each other
we're only saddened by the need
to scold our wildest brothers

peace through form of action
be our mantra from now on
no time for callous persons
no acceptance for badness of cause

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