Thursday, October 17, 2013

Dying Young

It was always there in me, this thought of dying young.
The tales of talented youth dying much before
They found no use for  their eager dreams,
Kindled a desire of blazing out like a forest fire.

The ones who had done so were many to count:
Long before they reached the age of thirty-three,
Jesus, Shelley, Keats and my own writerly father
Who left so many manuscripts and diaries.

Now, in my thirties, I wonder what made them tick,
What went in their bodies or minds to make them sick
And no longer afraid of lightning or busy roads,
Fresh cylinders or changing a light bulb all myself.

Sometimes I think I might die of laughter or heart-attack
From reading twisted truths on my students’ answer sheets.

Angst

Your words fill my heart with a strange emotion; it’s like seeing me in a mirror, a million crossroads ago. The words bring new possi...