I can still remember the days of spring,
When the cicadas began to sing.
That old school strangely calls my name,
But if I was to return, it wouldn’t be the same.
Glory days, they seemed to be.
To a point, I was a little free.
I was on the top of my rhyme,
But still, was it a better time?
While good memories nest in my head,
The bad, the sad, awake the dead.
In the bathroom a soldier on his knees,
Quietly crying to God his pleas.
Enslaved by cowardice, I slowly slid.
And amidst the stand, I quietly hid.
Afraid to speak against the crime,
Was it truly a better time?
Now the sun shines bright upon my day.
But at the old school they drift away.
Ever so quiet and intricately,
And beyond their eyes, so they don’t see.
Still we move our separate ways,
To never meet on any other days.
So now I move on to better rhymes,
Moving along to better times.
*john's room poetry. '05.
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