'The Winter of 1959' (revised)

“The Winter of 1959” I was born in the winter of nineteen fifty-nine. With no expectations or desires that bind. Bind me to a family, place or station in life. All I could hope for was to be someone’s wife. My life was hard and filled with disappointments. My journey has been long and filled with resentments. Soon I’ll be buried and all that I will have to show, Is a tombstone made of concrete with some writing in gold. No one will read this stone, so no one will know. That I once lived a life and now I die unknown. For this is the way of life for sad people like me. We tried to find happiness, but it was not meant to be. If you should read this poem someday and find it sad. It was written by someone; that living made her mad. A lonely person up till three in the morn. Wishing for a better life, the next time she’s born. Maybe then I’ll find and have that perfect life. And not be contented to be just someone’s wife. And I’ll leave behind a legacy that would make one proud. So then, at my next funeral, they’ll be a much bigger crowd.Please NO Rating! Written November 14th, 2001 © on Nov 13 2001 11:30 PM PST   18 • 0 • 1