I must try to keep alive,
that precious hunger upon which I thrive.
The ageless beauty in love of man,
the thrill of life, that one brief span.
I'll take the good and make it mine,
for you see my cup is filled with life not wine.
The cutting blows of innuendoes
when given birth to hurt the fold,
I shall not fight this evil weakness
with the eye for eye cliché.
No, I'll ignore its ugly venom
and turn my thoughts another way.
If hypocrisy must grow,
then let it harm the ones who show
they need this weaklings' crutch
to fight the right they fear so much.
It's a thing aside from wars and strife,
like a new approach to the tired life.
The needing man might as well decide
to share those things he has inside.
It can bring to life the printed page,
to withstand the test of age.
Perhaps just one who shares my need
will give me love and take my heed.
And still perchance these things I feel
are real unjust or just unreal.
But as I live and as I breathe,
I'll try my way before I leave.
Share This Poem