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April Seventeenth
Folder:
Poems of a Liberty City Native
We are in the peculiar year Two Thousand and Four
But now it is the seventeenth day of April and quiet;
Just a modest week after my manhood, nothing more,
As I cry, knowing I will never see her and can't deny it.
Today marks the anniversary after my very first kiss,
And I have yet to ever kiss another woman again;
This is also my grandmother's birthday whom I truly miss,
But I am still alone as my clock strikes a few after ten.
As I listen the Best of Anita Baker on compact disk,
I find myself weeping an unfrankly calm tear at night;
Then I close my eyes and see Tiffany as I would risk
My dignity to kiss the kiss we shared under a moonlight.
It is only April Seventeenth.
