Andre Gregor Riley
was this guy of seventeen
who was born with an
amazing lot of skills,
but no matter where
he ended up he never could be seen
for it took a lot to
be loved in these hills.
His talents opened
up his mind to many other things
that only few around
him seemed to get,
but no one showed or
listened to his many brilliant strings
and
he walked his days so full of sick regret.
Terrified and
lonely, he’s scared to be forgotten
by a fate he assumed
he would create,
as if he’d be a
spokesmen when his thoughts have all gone rotten
or ever have
disciples breaking in his bedroom late.
But
in school he had his circle and the others all got lost
and
he was rarely seen without his friend,
so
no one else there noticed how he wasn’t a guy to cross
or
just how much his straight-up was pretend.
Deluded and dumped
now, he lives a life detached
in the silence of
his room so insecure,
and sleeping with
his laptop as if from it he was hatched,
he’s thoughtless of
his death to depth unsure.
For “poetry is
damned and music’s gone to hell!”
(and
surely a savior it was sorely needed),
but
whether or not he’d love again was very hard to tell
because
passions fade just like a tide receded.
Once
driving in the neighborhood with his large can of gas
he
torched so many a new Old Glory flag.
And
at his trial his hatred of the war was all he cast
as
his defense for why his new jeans sag.
Now
probation’s pending ‘til his school year’s end,
he’s
jail bound, yet at ease all the same.
Now
futureless and undeclared and college don’t portend
he
spent his last year getting high on fame.
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