My hands are tied,
At the back of the chair,
Locked around my arms is a rope,
As I try to break free,
The roop cuts my wrists,
Blood that falls on the floor,
Makes me wince,
I carefully withdraw a knife,
Which was already in my pocket,
I take it out and I find out,
It was a butter knife.

He was just a boy
Yes, just 16 years of age
But he wanted to follow the colors
Just to prove that he was brave
But he was just a man child
A rifle in his hand
Yes the rifle gave him manhood
But the mind was still a childs
In Flanders field he learned the truth
Of the transition to a man not youth
But the mind was left behind
Wounded by a shell by enemy fire
And all around him men did die
His courage was spent and gone
Scared, in pain
His shell shocked scrambled brain
He wandered from the field
In tears, in fear he cried out for his mum
Battered in body, battered in mind
The boy could take no more
Three days later they found him
Hiding in a farm
At rifle point they took him
With biting ropes around his arms
Poperinge was the place the courts martial
Then took place
The boy just stood there silent
Shaking, ashen faced
The fateful words were spoken
All cowards have to die
'Thus before the firing squad
You must say your last goodbye
And so on that fateful morning
In the stable yard
The young boy in tears was tied
To the post by previous bullets scared
They pinned a white card upon his breast
For the firing squad to see
The command to fire was given
And a sixteen year old boy
Met his final destiny

Two kids
watching life go by
while learning
how to live it
moving slow
but learning fast
blink and
you will miss it

same two kids
ten years on now
still learning
and advancing
less watching
life as it moves on
but, a little
more romancing

holding hands out on the porch
drinking sweet tea too
knowing eyes are watching us
and everything we do
always must be proper
on the swing with you at night
they're watching us hold hands with one
while the other's out of sight

married now
and it's twenty years
since we
first sat out here
still watching life
and time pass by
holding hands
tea switched for beer

we've two kids
the house
is ours
thirty years
since we first sat
we're now the age
our parents were
sitting exactly
where we're at

holding hands out on the porch
drinking sweet tea too
knowing eyes are watching us
and everything we do
always must be proper
on the swing with you at night
they're watching us hold hands with one
while the other's out of sight


we've been married
forty years
we still sit
watching time pass
funny how
the simple things
stay a constant
from the past

fifty years now
we're still here
and just like it
used to be
we're still sitting
holding hands
still being watched
by grandkids three

holding hands out on the porch
drinking sweet tea too
knowing eyes are watching us
and everything we do
always must be proper
on the swing with you at night
they're watching us hold hands with one
while the other's out of sight


nothing changes
still the same
being watched
just like before
the house is now
our daughters
and the grandkids
number four

some days
we're still the
same two kids
moving slow
and learning fast
we don't watch
time go by no more
we close our eyes
and watch the past


still.....holding hands out on the porch
drinking sweet tea too
knowing eyes are watching us
and everything we do
always must be proper
on the swing with you at night
they're watching us hold hands with one
while the other's out of sight

I want to tell you I could love you.
I could make you happy.
I could make you fall apart on the
bedroom floor,
helplessly and desperately proclaiming
that our love was more
than the nights of
raised arms and oceans of threatening depths.

But fifteen is an age when all of this
is just a dream,
a cliff where the jump is even more
dangerous than everyone says it to be.
Fifteen is the age when I believe,
that my hands have grown rough enough
to take yours
and maturity and age
have always been our similarity.
But fifteen is just another name for
"You're too young."

I cannot promise you that a wedding ring
would worth more than
the freedom to love the women
of taller heights and wider hips
for their lipstick is much darker
than the lip balm I use to
smoothen the dried skin.

For I do not know what it is like
to slide the glass between my fingers
and to taste the golden bubbles
freeze my teeth.

I do not know how to light a cigarette
or how to inhale the scent and death of rebellion.
I do not know how to let the ashes fall
unto the tray without burning my skin
and dirtying my nails.

I do not know how to make you want me,
how to dress and turn my curves
into mountains you wish to explore.
I do not know how to turn my tongue
into a weapon much deadlier
than the wind.
I do not know how to make you
feel beautiful.

So with all of the worlds streets, corners and
dimly lit bars,
I am nothing but a little pigtailed girl
with a lollipop in one hand and a poorly written
love note in the other.
And there you are,
as tall and as handsome as I've always seen
you as
with no time to look down,
only straight ahead.

But I guess, thats okay.
The heels would never have fit me anyway.