I can’t remember a time when I didn’t like to put words on paper.  I wanted to post something I’d written as a child, so here’s a frivolous little poem I did around twelve years old.

The streetlamps flood the lane with light
To chase the darkness from the night.
The road is empty, all are gone
Except for one man, by a lawn.
A quite short man, with not much hair.
But why is he just standing there?

All have gone home – no one is out,
So what’s this man thinking about?
A bitter coldness chills the air.
But why is he just standing there?

It’s freezing out, and just a note –
He’s here outside without a coat.
I know I really shouldn’t care…
But why is he just standing there?

This question fills my mind with “wow”;
It’s all that I can think of now.
His stillness gives me quite a scare.
But why is he just standing there?

A blank expression on his face
Like he’d been there for many days.
This kind of thing, I’d say, is rare.
But why is he just standing there?

I’m set as stone, so stiff, this night.
My eyes are fixed upon the sight.
My arms are crossed, my eyebrows raised;
I’m in the most peculiar daze.
My thoughts have left, my mind is clear.

But why am I just standing here?

(I know, I know; ‘days’ is a terrible, lazy rhyme for ‘face’…that still bugs me)

Anyone else feeling brave enough to dig something up?  (>^-‘)>

Bene scribete.