When I was a little boy I nearly drowned in a river
while my father sat in a tire swing drinking poison
and chatting up some skin he hoped to try on for the evening.
If it weren't for a passing stranger I would have gotten my picture in the Sunday paper.
Maybe then he would have found some use for me.
Good skin doesn’t care for drunks, but everyone likes a sob story.
Nowadays I wonder if I would have been better off;
I could have been a rolling stone, gone down to meet the Atlantic.
She would have loved me then.
I was so clean, so blissfully untainted;
Not like now. Now we're both dirty,
carrying around so many people's filth under our skin.
I still think about answering her call, walking out into her murk
and letting her fill my lungs..
There's no good in that now, though.
I've already been claimed by the shore.
I absolutely love the fourth stanza. It's amazing in its ability to paint a picture and the wording is superb. Not that the rest of this isn't wonderful (sad...but wonderfully written).