ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Futility
is an exercise in patience
out here, in the ‘hood,
as they used to call it—
now it’s just called “nowhere”
now that the glamour has left
and the T.V. cameras packed up too
once there was nothing to see
nowhere to be
out here, in nowhere,
some call it no-man’s-land—
the empty space between dreams
and reality, or as we like to call it,
the day we got beat up
‘cus someone thought it’d be funny to watch
our fingerbones breaking, one by one
out here, in our dreams,
(we call them crazy)—
there are tall trees everywhere
and litte kids with plastic shovels
digging holes in the playground,
but our dreams go like cigarette smoke
and they vanish like silent souls
futility
is an exercise in patience
we know all of that word
it shudders in our every bone
it smoulders in our every breath—
futility;
the absence of hope
but so too do we know “patience”
yes, we know how to wait
for promises made, buses late, money withheld—
jobs denied, mothers expecting, fathers absent, love delayed;
for all these, we wait and wait
we have gnawed these words to bare bones
lived in them threadbare for years
so how is it that, still, after all these barren years,—
when the “absence of” cleaves to the “waiting for”;
they still give birth to “Hope?”
futility
is an exercise in patience
no one knows this better
than we who live out here
in the middle of nowhere
we with our big, silly dreams—
we’ll settle for a playground
or just a happy little kid
because we know how to read between the lines—
search the empty spaces between dreams and reality,
even when there is nothing worth seeing
We’ll find something worth waiting for.
is an exercise in patience
out here, in the ‘hood,
as they used to call it—
now it’s just called “nowhere”
now that the glamour has left
and the T.V. cameras packed up too
once there was nothing to see
nowhere to be
out here, in nowhere,
some call it no-man’s-land—
the empty space between dreams
and reality, or as we like to call it,
the day we got beat up
‘cus someone thought it’d be funny to watch
our fingerbones breaking, one by one
out here, in our dreams,
(we call them crazy)—
there are tall trees everywhere
and litte kids with plastic shovels
digging holes in the playground,
but our dreams go like cigarette smoke
and they vanish like silent souls
futility
is an exercise in patience
we know all of that word
it shudders in our every bone
it smoulders in our every breath—
futility;
the absence of hope
but so too do we know “patience”
yes, we know how to wait
for promises made, buses late, money withheld—
jobs denied, mothers expecting, fathers absent, love delayed;
for all these, we wait and wait
we have gnawed these words to bare bones
lived in them threadbare for years
so how is it that, still, after all these barren years,—
when the “absence of” cleaves to the “waiting for”;
they still give birth to “Hope?”
futility
is an exercise in patience
no one knows this better
than we who live out here
in the middle of nowhere
we with our big, silly dreams—
we’ll settle for a playground
or just a happy little kid
because we know how to read between the lines—
search the empty spaces between dreams and reality,
even when there is nothing worth seeing
We’ll find something worth waiting for.
A poem about living in the "bad" part of town. Based on some personal experiences.
© 2013 - 2024 lespapillons
Comments3
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Thanks for the review! I will keep that in mind.