Category: Peter’s Stuff

I forget my keys and people's names, 
Just every kind of thing.
Schedules, dates and meeting times,
To the forefront I can't bring.

Why is it then that there are things
That would be best forgot,
That never will be deep repressed,
Ere I will or not?

Second fiddle, second rate
Left to swallow bitter fate
Wanting more, wanting praise
To have at least some glory days
Even friends seem not to see
The deeper longing inside me
And sorrow when I'm pushed aside
My disappointment I just hide.

Half a sentence uttered when
They interrupt me, cutting in
Didn't notice I was there
And moved along without a care
Thoughts of mine are questioned quick
As if my logic wouldn't stick
Wrong by default, why ask me
Never mind, just ignore me.

Drip, drip, drip, drop,
To the bottom from the top,
Through the night I hear plip plop,
While in bed I flip and flop,
Should jiggle handle on the pot,
To cut the noise and make it stop,
But I never leave my spot.

The adults all say that I'm unique,
A different, special child of God,
But I'm not a dumb or clueless kid,
It's all because I'm downright odd.

Whoever thought a body part,
Could run and win a race,
Especially without arms or legs,
And stuck onto my face.

Its endurance is remarkable,
And speed is quite profound,
Running non-stop day and night,
With jumping, leaps and bounds.

You'd think it would've proved it's point,
And stopped to rest by now,
But my runny nose just won't stop,
To rest or take a bow.

A yellow bird with three-foot legs,
Gypsies stealing rotten brats,
A bunny poopin' chocolate eggs,
Vampires who fly like bats,

The monster underneath my bed,
A fairy thief who stole my tooth,
Krampus behind Santa's sled,
The troll under the attic roof,

I'm sure these are a made up lot,
To frighten kids and keep them straight,
But I don't buy it -- not a jot,
I'm much too smart to take the bait.

But Santa on the other hand,
Who never once has brought me grief,
And brings me presents very grand,
Is surely worthy of belief.

When you're young you know it all,
The world seems black and white.
Complex issues broken down,
Devolve to wrong or right.

But vision blurs with heightened age
The crispness fades away,
Hardened edges smear and smudge,
Sharp contrast blends to gray.

Living lessons teach restraint,
In judging others deeds,
Right and wrong still hold their ground,
But leave space in-between.

Would you like to be a bird,
And fly up in the sky,
Dart around the puffy clouds,
And soar up oh so high?

Eating worms and slimy things,
Pecking bark for grubs,
Munching fleas and bottle flies,
And other kinds of bugs?

Would you like to be a bird,
The sovereign of the sky?
If you do, so please yourself,
But as for me... Not I!

A pickle puss and sour sucker,
Sam was such a boy,
That nothing ever pleased him,
Nor gave him any joy.

When given treats and candy,
He would fret about his teeth,
When taken to a movie,
He complained about his seat.

The swimming pool was much too cool,
The hot tub much too warm,
The sofa cushions way to soft,
Rain showers were all storms.

Then one day a passing man,
Questioned very loud,
If there could be anything,
Of which Sam would be proud.

Hearing this Sam wondered,
Just what it was he liked,
And smiling he concluded that,
He really liked to gripe.

The brillig brinds had long died down
The wabe had gone to sleep
The slithy toves their gimble drown
The mome raths lost their peep. 

All the shorf was calm and geep,
A peaceful fugel filled the air,
But calmness only runs so deep,
Around the monster's lair.

Young Jabberwok the mighty heir,
Had grown into a beast,
And sought our former hero fair,
On his heart to feast.

In fraptuous fields his mind would dwell, 
He'd pace from flomp to flounce,
His sire's words remembered well,
"When scrundled you should pounce."

So lurking out to seek his foe,
Gnashing teeth and jaw,
He crossed the groob and forest loe,
Catching with his claws.

He found the hero at his plate
Scratching with his pen,
Then orkled through the portal gate,
And crundled round the fen.

In the void the hero sat,
Suspecting crunktious deeds,
Scribing ballads inked in black,
About some noxious weeds.

Then charged in young Jabberwok,
With scrouching siffs and swits,
And grabbed the hero by the sock,
And other hanging bits.

The vorpal sword once swift and sleek,
Had lost its edge to time,
The hero's back now bent and weak,
To food must be resigned.

The snacker snick of claws and teeth,
Crickled swiftly through the air,
And swallowed whole both sword and sheath,
And our hero fair.