Story Of A Boy

He went to school,

And wore green socks,

And played in the rains,

Chasing grasshoppers,

Crying for candies,

And his parents loved him,

And they loved each other,

(Kissed each other everyday),

And his brother loved him,

And his new bike,

And his teachers,

Maybe even they loved him,

And he loved the music from

The bagpipes in the mornings,

And Crickets in the evenings,

And his mother sang him

To sleep, every night,

So there he was, with his

Toys, and Peace, and Love

And Hope.

And then he grew up,

He still went to school,

And he wore blue trousers,

And he played in the rains,

Chasing the schoolgirls,

Crying for a cigarette,

And his parents loved him,

Tho' they knew not,

Of the cigarettes,

(And they no longer kissed

Each other everyday),

His brother had, the past year,

Crashed his car, and died.

And the schoolgirls loved him,

The teachers just seemed tired.

But he still loved the bagpipes,

But even more now, the guitar,

Which he was learning to

Play, and his mother,

Didn't sing to him each night,

Only she cried a lot,

So he hoped to make her happy,

And become a doctor,

So he had lost his toys

But he had his Love, and his Hope,

But a little less Peace.

And then he went to College,

Studying History,

(MedSchool was tough to crack)

Studying about Tea Parties in

Boston, and about Mandela

And Gandhi, about Peace

And Love, and War(s)

And he wore skinny jeans,

He still loved the rains,

Although barely ever did he

Play when it did rain,

And over the telephone,

His father did say he loved him,

And his mother, well, she 

Couldn't really speak,

And they never kissed anymore,

Because she was there no more,

The professors had no time,

To love their students,

But he loved his guitar,

And he played it in the evenings,

And he loved the girl,

Who would play the violin,

Who he had met first,

In the Friday music lesson,

And he loved the weed,

And the psychedelia,

And he loved to kiss her

Under the star-lit sky,

So there was a lot less

Love, a lot less Hope,

And certainly a lot less Peace.

And then the next winter,

He wore black cardigans

To college, Black matching the

Darkness in his mind,

And the dark and unusual

Rains of December,

And his father rarely called him

To say he loved him,

So he cried a lot, because

There was no Love to be found,

Neither was there any Peace,

There were drugs,

Lots of hallucinogens,

And there was the Darkness,

Looming large over the corridors

And the stairways,

Loneliness lining every corner,

And every tree, and every

Alley and Hallway,

Ever since he had

Caught sight of her with

 The other boy.

So there were music lessons

On Fridays, tho he never went.

There were still Crickets

In the Evenings, tho no more 

Love, or Hope, or Peace.

And then graduation,

Out of college, which he might

Have attended, but now he

Wore blue long-ish robes,

As did all the other

Inmates at the rehabiliation.

She had come by once,

With chocolates in her purse,

And pity in her eyes,

Which he might have noticed,

If he wasn't trying to bite

His fingers off his hands.

His father would have come too,

But he had had a stroke,

And was now paralyzed,

And restricted to bed, and

A world of bedsores, and

Imminent Death,

So now no one loved him,

And he loved no one,

Not History, neither medicine,

And sometimes,

He would try to sing

Himself to sleep, but

All he could manage to do

Was cry a few more 

Drops of the toxic tears,

And where was the Love?

And where was the Hope?

And where was the Peace?

Now all of those things,

Were silver-lined memories,

Of the songs his mother sang

To him, when he went to school

And wore green socks..