We all must grow old
With time as a true constant
But must we grow old angry?
All must get angry
As we are all just human
But why must we all grow old?
-©2012 Alex Hicks
So tired. Can’t sleep.
Suffering from a bit of insomnia this week. Probably from the stress of moving. Sorry if I stop making sense on this post. Sense is one of the first things I forgot how to make out of exhaustion. It’s hard; all that baking and folding and sewing. Pain in the butt really.
So anyway, myself and my best friend/roommate did our first grocery trip last night. We put all the food in the fridge and the cupboards and then it hit me: this is really happening. Awesome; and weird at the same time.
And my parents would rather be in Moncton when I move out. Hurray. (sarcasm) (for those who don’t know, Moncton is a city in New Brunswick, a different province).
Also. Why is Starbucks so bleeding expensive. I know why the US economy sucks. Starbucks. I blame them.
I’m still going to buy coffee there. So delicious.
Okay, so I’m posting just to let you know I’ll probably have a poem or two later today. It’s the first night I’m spending at the apartment and I’m there alone. (I’ll be posting from my phone as internet won’t be up until tomorrow.)
And as the internet baboons like to say,
P.S.: Yes I just called a lot of people baboons. It’s okay though, I love baboons; they’re entertaining and loveable (unless they’re throwing crap at you. Literally crap).
P.P.S.: Did I mention I was tired? I am. Really. Really. Tired. I dismantled a bed at 5:00 this morning. I couldn’t sleep anymore.
P.P.P.S.: I’m going to post some quotes today I think. It feels like a quotes/free verse kind of day.
P.P.P.P.S.: I have enough P.S.’s here that I probably should have just ended the post later. Oh well. 🙂
I wrote this poem in the middle of the night. I was laying in bed thinking like I often do and this poem started to read itself to me. Least to say I immediately picked up my notebook and started to type.
If asked when young which I thought better,
The inked tip of my pen
or honed blade of my sword
Without thinking twice I’d have replied:
“My sword can cut all who stand in my way
but my pen can express my feelings.
If I had to choose which one to take,
Sword in hand, I’d leave them bleeding.”
But as I look at that younger self,
And the meaning of the phrase,
I wish I had been there to help,
To show him the better way.
The sword is strong in its own way,
But the pen holds all the aces,
For while a sword can cut your foes,
The pen will take you places.
If I had met my younger self,
I’d have set him true,
That writing, knowledge, and emotion,
Are things a sword can never do.
And if he still took the sword,
I’d slip the pen in his back pocket,
As he would grow up into I,
and I would want it sooner.