Dreams, Days, Summers Well Spent

June 1, 2011
By the_remedy292 BRONZE, Chicago, Illinois
the_remedy292 BRONZE, Chicago, Illinois
4 articles 1 photo 5 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Write as a gift to others."-John Green

When it’s summer we’ll take our thrift store jeans,

cut the knees off,

replacing factory sewn seams with,

the frayed edges of our adulthood.

We will walk along lake Michigan,

wishing we were somewhere else.

Maybe a college town,

far from this place of delayed dreams,

and heads in clouds,

waiting for them to be realized.

Sun setting over days well spent,

This fulfillment is not far off.

I break off a piece of far fetched freedom to share with you.

And as we swing our legs over things we could become,

I tug at the collar of my crew neck T-Shirt,

hoping to lessen the feeling of being trapped in an age moving to slow.

I regained my freedom three months ago,

while the world turned closer to the sun,

I got on my bike and rode closer to adulthood.

And you met me there.

How we first met, I can’t recall,

but I’ve got a feeling it’s buried somewhere in the summers of the past,

spent sword fighting with little blue batons,

and chipping teeth.

When you don’t feel like,

you need TV,

to breathe.

And when the corrugated walls of,

a life lived indoors,

melt clean away.

A fleeting season,

lends a sense of peace,

to us.

Abetting in the obsession with Eastern European languages,

I never could explain.

I guess an anthem of a generation is born,

within fleeting obsessions,

we expected to last,


Put to rest in the chanting,

of the greatest wish we could ever have.

You and me,

may not know each other forever,

not for much longer, even,

because perhaps you are the personification,

of the figures that flit in and out of my life.

Based on their own need to become something.

I could not respect this need more.

This season brings not only joy but uncertainty.

A bridge between years,

that spread apart so easily.

In fact, so easily,

you might be lost on the way.

Rolled up sleeves have the effect,

of a halfway point.

That middle ground becomes increasingly smaller.

As your sleeves creep up your arms,

mine hang firmly to my wrists.

Saying stubbornly,

not yet.

I respond, in a voice not utilized in what seems like years.

These dreams, days, and summers,

are what brings me the sun, stars, and sometimes the moon.

I would waste them,

like I would waste a second of time with you.

The author's comments:
This poem is (abstractly) about some of the adults in my life and how they move on.

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