Coffee, not tea where is my china cup, walking americanos, branded names and muddy thoughts, I am the one who matters most.
A blade is thrust into my soul, we don’t have stabbings, the boy next door he is no more.
I live to be away, not people just walking, me and my dog, that patch with blades of grass, who gave me the right to have such space I don’t belong in the human race.
The more we become the less we are, granny used to smile, a kind word in the street, the fading lights of who we are, I long for the ceremony, the tea and cakes.
No more spitfires in the sky, I wave the flag no more. Who gave me the right to pride on thoughts of blowing jacks, with manners of giving time, I am the Gentleman who tips his hat.
The local bobies the kids with respect, I had a bike for Christmas, my football sometimes in the net.
Outside memories everywhere, children live inside four walls, the game of hands controlling the people who live inside the box, and words without sounds, taping the language of chat,
take them back to the human race.
I want to breathe, and not to gasp, who gave me the right to judge, it weights like London, so maybe I’m lost in the human race.
I am new to writing. I have only been writing for one year. I have had no education on writing, although I have always been interested in words. With family responsibilities, bringing home the bacon so to speak, I have not had the chance to write. Being the youthful age fifty eight, I am not ready for the field, so I work, and learn to write. It does take time to learn, the river flows so small, yet gains in size, it travels so far, no shortcuts along the way.