Passport Year

My passport was my ticket,

As I climbed aboard the plane.

Guitar across my shoulder,

Adventure in my veins.


The world has been my hometown,

In the year I just walked through,

The colors of the planet,

Are my blood, green and blue.


I traveled Southeast Asia,

Jungle tropics, frigid heights,

With my five backpacker friends,

Through barren plains and city lights.


We drove old motorbikes,

And cruised in giant jets.

We stayed in cheap hotels,

And camped out in Tibet.


We kept our backpacks light.

Our treasures were not things

But the smiles of our students,

And the songs our memories sing.


We witnessed dire poverty,

Homelessness, despair,

But there is gold in Asia,

In the people we met there.


We made new friends diverse as lands,

And then we said goodbye.

We may not understand with words,

But all our hearts can cry.


And now my passport’s tucked away,

and I must put down roots,

But deep inside, my bag is packed,

My wings are always groomed.


And I am not the same again,

For all that I have seen.

The world and people I have met,

Have placed their stamp on me.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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