justbekozlowski

These words are the property of clever people. I'm just trying to put them in order.

Month: January, 2015

Moving

If you want to move forwards,
Then put one foot in front of the other,
If you want to move back,
Then we don’t look after each other,
If you really seek change,
Then it will show in how you move,
And if you think that I am strange,
Well, that’s surely partly true,

We are moving so, so fast,
That we think that ‘there’s no time’,
But if there’s time for YouTube and Facebook,
Then I think that it’s a lie.
We can control all the things we do,
But we just don’t pick up the remote,
Instead we sit on the sofa,
And jump on the lazy boat.
As we sail towards the easy option,
The world will fall apart,
But if we work as one,
And take the throne,
Then it really isn’t hard.

Just as an individual, owns their life,
A race can do the same,
Would we rather be stupid humans,
Or animals who used their brain?

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January wisdom.

Make a person smile,
You can feed them for a second,
Make a person laugh,
They will love you for a while.
Make a person angry,
And you’ll surely feel their wrath,
But if you make them cry,
You should buy them a kebab.

A week behind.

And here we are,
A week behind,
I was sitting here,
And future-blind,
I had a no-eyed deer,
It’s name unknown,
And from that point on,
The mystery’s grown.
Here I still I am,
And still with my deer,
Life can move fast,
And time disappears.

A book to read,

A book to read
And a book that’s read,
They both find a way
From your eyes to your head,
They play like a film,
That is born from the words,
Your brain molds the faces,
And writes songs for the birds,
It’s a magical thing,
Is reading a book,
So feast your eyes,
And then get hooked.

Shorter sight

My sight was short,
But now it’s worse,
As my glasses ran off,
In a mystery hearse,
I had them on,
And then I didn’t,
I fell off my horse,
Called Luck that I’d ridden.
We rode in contests,
We won many a race,
But now I can’t see
Very far from my face.
I don’t think I’ll be riding,
Dear Luck any more,
As I can’t see the race,
And I walked into the door.

Creepy hours

The hours in a day,
Might all fly away,
If you don’t hold them down,
Don’t spend them all weeping,
Or frowning or sleeping,
As a smile keeps your feet on the ground.
Some days I am sleepy,
And the hours are creepy
But I laugh all the hours away,
As if you love time,
Then time can love you,
And your smiles will stay there for days.

Bugs in gloves, in rugs, in snugs.

I’ve always had gloves I’ve lost and loved,
They’ve been good for the start,
But flown like doves.
They’re always quite cheap,
I never spend much,
Because I know they’ll be lost,
Then there’s nothing to touch.
But now I’ve been given,
Some gloves that are warm,
They now make me smile,
And squiggle like a worm,
I’m as snug in a rug,
As a bug could be,
You might feel the same,
But you’re not as happy as me.

Shakey start

A shakey start,
Don’t fall apart,
Use your head,
And use your heart,
There’s no point stressing,
The moment is pressing,
But keep on moving,
And fly straight like a dart.

The miles between.

The miles between,
They won’t be seen,
It’s like they’re not even there,
Because I am here,
You’re there my dear,
But neither of us can care.
Because we know it doesn’t change,
That friends are friends for life,
If you need a word,
I’m always here,
So come and tell me your strife.

The old goat and the tree.

‘Where’s the shame in being honest?’
Said the old goat to a tree,
You think I’ll never climb up you?
Well just you wait and see’.
So the goat started making a ladder,
Out of old sticks and leaves,
The tree looked down shocked,
As the goat places the rocks,
That would allow him to climb up the tree.
Now the goat had a smile when he finished,
But he knew the job was far from done,
He stepped up feet light,
And it made quite the sight,
As the goat then started to run.
But the ladder he built came falling,
And the goat came tumbling down,
But he’d done his best,
The rest was the rest,
And the goat didn’t die with a frown.
Now nobody thinks this poem,
Will be about an old goat who dies,
And I’d say it is not,
Nor about sticks that rot,
But about the old goat who tried.