A Poem by Austin Smith

Just something I dabbled on 2/16/11




Some people can’t stand that time is measured

By a tick coming first, then a tock up next;

Some prefer the breaths that Mother Nature blows

And settle in the breeze ‘til the harsh sun sets.


Some people can’t think that days are numbered

By the grid of a calendar hangin’ on a wall;

These ones attack their time with a healthy vigor

Until Death has to personally give them a call.


Some people can’t stand the constant tick-tock

Or the thoughts that are brought from standing at the dock

When there’s an ocean, above and below, that’s awaiting.

Let’s face it, some people can’t stand spectating

And being stagnant and slothful, to them it’s degrading;

It’s almost as if their entire being is fading

And to these select few, they’re always in shock

When the masses are moved by the constant tick-tock.


Some people can’t stand that the youthful sit

And stare into the distance while the teacher preaches;

The words are wasted to these massive groups,

And then some people listen to what he or she teaches.


Some people can’t think of holding anything back

When given an opportunity to create something new

These few are the ones who are out of the spotlight

That deserve to be praised for the things that they do.


Some love the strain and pain that faces display

When they work on a new idea every day

And through the torture of fighting, the pain and the grief

There’s a moment at the end when they can sigh in relief

For they now have something to show, from their own hands

And whether they rise or fall, they surely can stand

And proclaim that they gave to the youth of today

And even though they die, their legacy will stay.


© 2011 Austin Smith

Author's Note

Austin Smith
I hope you enjoyed it.

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Well done.

Posted 9 Years Ago

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Added on February 17, 2011
Last Updated on February 17, 2011


Austin Smith
Austin Smith

Grand Terrace, CA

I've decided, with the conclusion of my time at a community college, to launch myself fully into the experience of writing. I shall no longer beat around the bush, methinks. more..