Poem

As John was walking along the orange path,
Covered by the golden leaves of the trees,
He hears the children play and laugh,
But he holds back the tears,
‘From what?’ you ask,
‘What makes him cry?
Is it joyous views of the past?
Or does sadness kill his high?’
He is walking back form his past school day,
Letting the wind do the work,
He knew that god would make him pay,
His phone call was just to jerk,
Jerk back his memories of being a rebel,
Not far back, he still is,
He always got himself into trouble,
And now the debt that’s paid is his.
He gets a call, saying his parents are dead,
The reasons are unknown,
He feels the blood rush to his head,
He feels himself unsown,
Its not his parents life he mourns,
But that of his own.

Before his heart began to ache,
After sixteen years of beating,
He was told something he can’t take,
And now he feels like fleeting,
He has to live with his auntie and uncle,
Two he has always feared,
Not because they are old and uncool,
But because- well- it’s weird.
He always felt an uneasy wave of death around them,
His mother said its untrue,
But he remembers the evil stench surrounds them,
He worries that he will be swallowed too.
“Oh how you have grown,” His hairy aunt laughed,
“I remember you were this tall,”
My uncle just looked and coughed,
As she stroked an invisible wall.
“We will take him now,” My small aunt gleamed,
Showing her yellow teeth,
“It shall be easier than it seemed,”
Does she have a heart underneath?
The counsiler left me standing in the door,
Their grins begin to turn,
I wish he could stay five minutes more,
Their anger begins to churn,
“Your hair needs cutting and you need a shave,”
My aunt said pulling my mop,
“You look so untidy, have you come from the grave?”
She hisses beating my top.
“You maybe quite tall, but also quite thin,”
My round uncle phlegm’s at the mouth,
“If we started a fight I would be sure to win,”
Welcome Mr. Scary of Plymouth.
“But, of course, I wouldn’t,”
He begins to confess,
“Mainly because I couldn’t.
Or my life would be a mess,
If it wasn’t for our father up in the sky,
You wouldn’t be here right now,
And neither would I,”
“It simply proves it,
Even gods make mistakes,”
“Your heart is a pit!
Filled with snakes!God never does wrong,
And you should’ve known,
And there is only one!
Now you should be thrown…”

“Now now, dearest,” She says to her spouse,
“This boy is young and stubborn,
And he hasn’t even set foot in our house,
So let him be welcome!
“Okay son, now remember this,
Every story has a moral,
This house is filled with solemnly bliss,
Every story has a moral son, every story has a moral,”
Now, remember that line,
As it will come to importance,
This story is mine,
Just like their heritance.

The dysfunctional family argued a lot,
His hair, his fashion,
His piercings the lot,
His vegan diet wasn’t let off the hook though.
When his foster parents hit him and screamed,
“You listen to the sound of the devil!”
It proved to him it seems,
Their feelings will never be level.
Although he was grounded every night of the week,
He stayed out late, working in jobs getting money,
He thought that his plan was sleek,
But his strict parents didn’t think it was funny.
They picked him up from school,
And watched him in his room,
He felt like a tool,
“I need the bathroom,”
He hoped this would work,
He snuck out of the window,
He ran with a smirk,
They would never know.
Although his belongings are still in his house,
He shall sleep on the streets tonight.
Although he never keeps tiredness out,
He will never stop to fight.

One final day, he goes back to their house,
And collects all of his belongings,
“You are never again leaving this house!”
They scream until his ears ring,
“Well that’s illegal, you see,
You cannot keep me hostage,
Imprisonment will put down on thee,
Can I go now?”
“No!” They cry,
“But I bought my own house, I no longer live here,”
They scream to the sky,
He chuckles as he leaves them there.

Every story has a moral,
This one doesn’t,
But does it need a moral?
Can a poem be a story?
To him it can’t be,
Obviously.