A poem I wrote this evening inspired by the life and death of Michael Jackson. It may be a cliche and even a bit tacky to write a poem for such an event, but unfortunately it's my only form of expression.  When I came home and opened up my facebook home page every single status update, link, post and comment was regarding Jackson and his life, controversy and contribution to modern music and dance - One can't ignore such a widespread effect on mankind, and so, using my only tool; words, I have created somewhat of a narrative poem in tribute.

"The Boy With The Glass Eye"

A boy lived once, with glass in his eye.

    A delicate soul rich in force and care.

No one could spy and always wondered why,

    The boy refused to share his obvious despair.

Many brothers and sisters he was born into,

    and close with them he was.

Though all who had their very own view,

    would commonly applause.

The boy with the eye had talent and spry.

    and certain magical flare.

He could sing and dance and with ease supply,

    all the villagers with a joyful affair.


Though his siblings with him would take the stage,

    it was always commanded by him.

It was impossible to gage or ever wage,

    on how a bright future could be so grim.

Older the boy grew and more fragile the glass,

    and the villagers began to crave,

More singing and dancing which led to, alas,

    A life less his own and more of a slave's. 

His family stood by and watched the boy cry,

    and supported him best they could.

But, when a beast wants to be fed a feast,

    there's little account for common good.

So harder he danced and louder he sang,

    and the thinner the glass eye got.

For but a boy the bell of manhood rang.

    and to cling onto his boyhood he fought.

The boy was now caught up in the middle,

    of boyhood ignorance and manhood bliss,

Always would his real dreams play second fiddle,

    To the biting paranoia and fear of remiss.

His voice got louder and his feet more swift,

    but the villagers began to grow tired,

Of his singing and dancing so he began to drift.

    Into a world where to be inspired was not required.

The people of the village started to wonder,

    if perhaps there was more to know.

About the boy who was torn asunder

   and who had shown them only his show.

Poked and pried and snooped and dug,

    the villagers would not give up.

When they found nothing swept under the rug

    the villagers would make things up.

Within a short span it came to village vs. man,

    and they forgot he could sing and dance.

The stage went empty and a witch hunt began.

    He hadn't a chance nor second glance.

He influenced some and changed lives of more,

    he became one of a kind.

Passion in his projects he'd always pour,

   and love in his art you'd find.

After years of torment and endless critique,

    his heart began to grow weak.

A character of mystique had always been meek,

    his life began to grow bleak.

One day before taking the stage,

    his heart finally failed him.

It was impossible to gage or ever wage,

    on how a bright future could have been so grim.

The glass in his eye shattered not,

    though it always showed its flaw.

Of a wrong doing he was never caught,

    But it's as human to err as it is to awe.

written by jeff campagna

June 25th 2009, 9:04pm