My button

My button comes from a plain shirt
Dark green with black lines
Old and dusty
Lost at the bottom of the wardrobe

It sat for many years in scope in lewisham
Last belonging to a man
Having fallen out of favour
It sits collecting dust

It was last worn by a teacher
30, his name was joe
He hated his life, he hated his job
His shirt was his comfort

He was 6\'1 and had cropped black hair
He died at 31 in a car crash
With his friend
Having not worn his shirt

At his funeral they read how he was a kind man
On fridays he\'d sit up to all hours
Writing poems
Trying to inspire the children

He was in love with one of his school friends
Had been for over 15 years
Though he died cold and alone
She was the last thing on his mind

He dreampt of happiness
Clinging onto a single thread of hope
He waits
To meet enjoyment and fun

He got irritated easily
And sometimes truly angry
When his class through their lives away
Dabbling in drugs and death

He reads the same book over and over
Called \"A little piece of ground\"
He lies awake for hours
Pondering on what ifs

He thinks nothing now, he lies still in his grave
But far away his concience wishes for the life he craved

* A poem written from looking at a single button *