The Poor Boy Inside
I’ve reached for the highs and I’ve longed for the stars,
unbottled bravado in razor blade bars,
I’ve poked out the eyes of the man in the moon
then cried with the clouds as I landed too soon.
I’ve flipped a stiff bird at the weak and the strong
to prove to myself that I’m right and they’re wrong,
but all I have sensed and it won’t be denied:
the soft shoulder-tap of the poor boy inside.
I’ve gathered up riches, I’ve gambled and won
then squandered my winnings on pleasure and fun,
I’ve ridden with rebels and brawled with the brave
but still I can’t earn all the honour I crave.
My tyres are worn square on the long, searching miles
where sometimes a glimpse of the sunset beguiles,
but night leads to day where I’ve nowhere to hide
from the unyielding drag of the poor boy inside.
I’ve crushed him with speed and I’ve stuffed him with bread
I’ve warned him that one of us will soon be dead,
I’ve boasted false virtue, I’ve cursed him in pride
but still I can’t kill off the poor boy inside.
I think I remember where he and I met,
the place that I’ve tried my whole life to forget,
where childhood was lost and sweet innocence died:
when rage brought to being the poor boy inside.
2/7/22