~ * ~ * ~ * ~
my heart jumps over the moon.
It's crazy, I know, this feeling
that everything is all right,
But then again, I have al-
ways been crazy to the world.
I wish this feeling would last forever.
I wish this feeling could last forever.
But what is forever to the young?
It is now. It is never. I will love you forever.
Forever is the time I spend in Calculus--
and that seems long enough to have
more than enough love to last a lifetime.
I am young. I am hip. And I will love you...forever.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Having said that I want to write poetry, does that ruin it? I don't know. I can't help admitting it. Maybe you will think it is--that my writing is like poetry--anyway.
You see, sometimes the words I call poetry well up inside me, bouncing around and buzzing, like June bugs in one of those plastic bags gardeners put out in their yards when the nights begin to warm. If I open the bag for a glimpse of the shiny green beetles, I risk losing the words like so many winged insects. If I don't peek in the bag, the beetles just flounder about in agitated consternation at being trapped, and maybe there will be so many eventually that they escape anyway. Then the close evening sky would be filled with the metallic sheen of the flying beetles quickly becoming mere shadows amid the dusk, soon all gone.
^ This might be the bridge over the railroad yard "we" (my fellow after-school tutors and I) had to cross to get to our Federal Work-Study site, but I am not certain.