Of Life

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
About why I have started to write poetry as well as short stories.

Submitted: November 24, 2016

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Submitted: November 24, 2016



I want to write long, flowing, powerful verses,

Of life, the universe and everything.

Of miserable Monday mornings.

Of too many beers, followed by screaming hangovers.

Of dog walks in the rain, with a puppy that will not move.

Of crawling traffic, lanes of cars going nowhere, red tail lights snaking away into the distance.

Of people buying designer clothes from shopping malls to wear in bars selling overpriced watered down drinks.

Of being a son, brother, husband, uncle and all the pleasures and pressures therein.

Of visiting Liverpool, the Cavern, Strawberry Fields, Penny Lane, rock & roll music in the air.

Of payday millionaires who live like a king for one day a month in pubs, clubs and casinos.

Of Shakespeare’s house and Stratford, he’s all around, you can almost hear him whisper.

Of marriage, laughing drunk Saturday nights and the tough slog of Tuesday mornings.

Of attending the Remembrance Day memorial, the bugle playing the last post, the silence, the goose bumps.

Of people always on their mobile phones, staring at Facebook, at Twitter,

Of finally seeing the Stone Roses live a quarter of a century past their peak.

Of those that can’t eat a meal without taking a photo, it’s pie and chips not a Picasso.

Of pubs packed full of football fans glued to the big screen cheering as though they were at the game.

Of writing a hundred stories and rushing to write the next.

Of holidays in the sun, long beach walks, Spanish lager, tapas, full English breakfasts.

Of meeting my favourite authors, coming away inspired clutching a signed hardback book.

Of people who talk in an extra loud voice in a quiet place.

Of family Christmases, music and mince pies, crackers and whiskey.

Of Chinatown, glowing neon lights and enticing aromas from countless restaurants.

Of reaching almost forty years old and being less sure of anything that I ever was,

And so I write.

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