Sometimes, I have to get away from it all,
forget about the daily commitment to write;
sometimes, I just want to think of only Fall,
the autumn colors, the wind's sharp bite.
days when there is nothing better to do,
than relax, put on some music for the mood;
who was it that said, to thy own self be true?
is it too much aloofness, is it too rude?
there is always certain things to get done,
appointments to be kept, places to go;
but don't forget to stop and have some fun,
take time off, meditate, take things slow.
there's escapism in a lengthy, written book,
there is happiness in taking time to dream;
there's enchantment in your lover's look,
and nothing's as serious as it seems.
I will take this rainy day, read some poetry,
listen to the music that I know and love;
with whatever comes my way, I'll let it be,
sailing on the wings of an imaginary dove.
David Lessard's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Escape. by David Lessard )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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