I told them a thousand times if I told them once, You’re making a big mistake. Awright, I said.

I grew like a thin, stubborn weed, under a banana tree.

I will want to hear their voices, bursting in the eardrums like love.

I walk down the street; The night air is bitter cold.

I got those sad weary blues; nobody cares about you.

I am thinking of that rotting carcass on the rocks; nothing remains but a memory-of the suffering.

Suppose we were born wise? What progression filled with earth-knowing.

Perhaps our age has driven us indoors. Maybe they hear the echoes of the drums.

I look back at them, trying to see what looks so different.

I want to cry and scream and break down in the street, scared of what might become.

If only they’d once admitted they were wrong.