Things have to get better,
No matter the time,
No matter the place.
If I give you a word,
You'll have to rhyme,
If you are to save face.

Not certain about the words,
That I wrote.
Commit them to memory,
Remember by rote.

A mess of words,
That are to be,
A way for me to
Maintain my sanity.
A futile attempt,
Don't you see.

I'm not getting better
And soon I'll be,
An example to share,
For sake of history.

A lonely tear, slides down my cheek
as I think of this life of ours.
It pains me when recalling you,
now the tear has become two.
I am not weeping, there is no more.
Just the tick of a clock.

My mind is running away from me.
I think I need a pre frontal lobotomy.
Thoughts that are stuffed in every place,
Wedged in cracks or any empty space.
I need some time. Time to think
Or I may have to turn to drink.

The sight of children playing
brings memories from the past,
of tire swings
or throwing rocks
and days that last and last.
Riding bikes, with fenders gone
while racing through the street
with nickel cones, bubble gum
and sockless, shoeless feet.

(This a redo, published in 2017)