we all have memories,
some slightly bad,
some good,
we all have photos,
when we were young,
skinny and white,
some of us have poems,
way back then,
we were so,
fragile and innocent,
now looking back,
at what we were,
spotty faces,
longer hair,
funny we can laugh now,
at all that rage,
that has matured like cheddar,
spread across our page,
how did we survive,
keep ourselves alive,
when depression,
pressed down on you,
drunk and raw,
a brighter shade of blue,

we all have made mistakes,
some quite bad,
some put right,
we all have felt ill,
from a saturday night,
when we were young,
trying to look cool,
deadly cocktails,
destroying you,
some of us wrote something,
wanting to rule the world,
anger inserted into prose,
stepping on everyone’s toes,
funny we can cringe now,
how did that poem survive,
when the original was written in a toilet,
in a forgotten now demolished factory
twenty odd years ago,

I grew up writing poetry,
as I grew more I binned the lot,
I was never proud of my writings,
those first verses I forgot,
writing about work,
writing about war,
writing the same old lines,
until my hand was sore,
there was no internet,
just a cheap typewriter,
funny looking back now,
at those smudged pages,
running rivers,
the suckerpunch of a feather,
and other poems that are now,
cancelled from the page,
so read my work,
before I lose my mind,
because my poetry,
unlike Williams work,
will not last for centuries,
will not reside in libraries,
when the future generation looks back,
only misery and broken computers,
shattered smartphones,
a pile of smouldering plastic,
and nothing to remind them,
of me.

©Darren Hobson January 2015