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Monday Morning, 4 AM
Another year older as the air gets colder,
Just as it always does.
Same me in different clothes,
But nothing is as it was.
Fourteen years on my own, never getting anywhere;
Is it my life or the world that is unfair?
People tell me I write good poetry,
And that may be true;
Poets rarely get rich
Off of doing what they do.
Fourteen years of writing from my heart;
A passion that's been floundering from the start.
In and out of jail, without fail,
For one reason or another, branded.
Wrong place at the wrong time,
Or simply caught red-handed.
Fourteen years of frequent incarceration;
Perhaps there's a psychological explanation.
Living like a bum, while fooling some,
Has never been easy to hide.
Sleeping in vacant buildings,
Wearing shabby clothes, swallowing pride.
Fourteen years of choosing homelessness;
A wasted life, more or less...
There have been now and again
Aquaintances here and there,
But rarely a true friend
Who really does care.
Fourteen years of social inadequacy;
It's only my real friends who understand me.
Rarely I have been in love with women,
Because of the way I live.
How can I love someone
If I have nothing to give?
Fourteen years without a girl of my own;
Am I choosing to die alone?
So here I am, at 4 AM,
On a cold November morning,
Sitting at Denny's, drinking coffee,
Writing these words as they're forming.
Fourteen years of my adult life on my mind;
Searching the Hallways of Time, hoping to find
An answer as to what has to do
With how my life has gone.
Taking a microscopic view
To see where I've gone wrong.
Fourteen years of learning and living;
In truth...I haven't learned a DAMN thing!!!
Patrick W. Hopkins 11/2/2009
