The Counter

Count your weight and count your wage.
Count your dates and count your age.
Count your wins and count your loss.
Count the times you’d kill your boss.
Count your sex and count the sand.
Count the times you’ve used your hand.
Count the stars up in the sky.
Count the times you’ve had to lie.
Count the marks you get on tests.
Count the times you’ve had to guess.
Count your rent and count your cash.
Count. And time leaves with a flash.

This poem could change your life.
Don’t count on it though.

- Max Miller

Inspired by everyone telling me how old I was getting now that I’m seventeen.. Really? Old?

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An Incomplete Haiku

Creating Haikus
Is something I always find
Extremely diffic..

- Max Miller

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The Floating Boy

Astronauts and firemen,
He picks at dreams and plays.
Ageing steals his oxygen,
Until his dreams turn grey.

Smooth skin with a bubbling grin,
He sleeps to father’s voice.
Shaving scabs and drunk kebabs,
A booming, looming choice.

A woodland path that moves so fast,
The trees grow as he floats.
Floating on, trees bar the past,
A bubble blocks his throat.

Tumbling through the leaves he grasps
and desperately clings.
The lack of air it makes him gasp,
If only he had wings.

The branches slowly drag him down,
Until his feet are stuck on ground.
A poem of a boy began,
Blink for too long, the boy’s a man.

- Max Miller

falling-boy

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A Celebration of Death

Ashen faces, blue embraces.
In memory of your routine love.
Rolling tears lament the years,
Rest in clouds and skies above.
I take my seat with heavy feet,
A tortured shriek rings from the front.
An almost dead he shakes his head
and whispers with a heavy grunt.

Remember me for what I’ve done,
For smiles we shared, our fights, our fun.
I’m no great man or perfect dad,
But all this sadness makes me mad.

Sunbeam faces, warm embraces.
Celebrate the life they loved.
Remember them just as they were,
If rich man, poor man, bloke or Sir.
A person’s life should shine and glow,
Say your Goodbyes, like your Hellos.

- Max Miller

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A Great Britain?

A beer in his hand and fright in his eyes,
‘Go back where you come from and don’t say goodbye.’
He’s proud of his land and its Great British past,
‘You’re taking our jobs’, as I listen aghast.
Unemployed yes of course, who would hire this man?
‘Go straight back to India perhaps Pakistan.’
No one defends the Sri-Lankan gent,
‘We don’t want you here’, his fists look intent.

By this point I’m fuming, the dark fills my eyes,
Pulse racing, heart thumping, I stand up and rise.
‘Look at the Carlsberg you hold in your hand,
It’s from Copenhagen, no Great British brand.
Our sausages German and pizza from Italy,
Our curry from India..’ he shuffles uncomfortably.
‘Our country’s diverse and we’ve never been free,
From the lands just over the great deep blue sea.’

‘I’ll add when you talk of the Great British past,
Viking invasions just sound like a blast..
Our language a mixture from all of the world.’
He stares at his beer, his opinion unfurled.
‘At least he works hard and brings in some cash,
Better than you and your crazed balderdash.
We don’t want you here and your rude racist views,
So run along home and keep up with the news.’

A round of applause as he flees through the door,
His dignity shattered, his beer on the floor.

- Max Miller

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