by George Freek
When young I was carefree.
I drank the strongest wines.
I never touched tea.
Mother you raised a fool.
Now you are dead, and I
am old. Reaching seventy,
as stars sharp as scimitars spin
like mad dervishes in the night,
what good for me to scold?
I have only myself to blame.
I’ve written hundreds of poems,
but passed up being useful,
to strive for a useless fame.
And no one knows my name.
Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing