This is my eitchen midden
The skeletons in my closet
What makes me conscience-smitten
What leaves me grief-stricken
This is why I hate my mirror reflection
Cause it makes me reflect back to the days when I had an inner lechin
See I manged to suppress this skin burn within me like I had a latch in
In my skin, an inferno of anger burned every time they had me sketching
Letters with sketchiness
I was symmetrically incomplete
Everything had me everting my heart
Trying to let people see the inside
The inside of my insidious inside
Im not who you think I am
Deep down, Im a grief-stricken hobo
A loner who u can call a vagabond
Nobody loves me
So I choose to fall in love with words
Make love with this words
To come up with this offsprings
I call poems
I know it hurts but this is what meanders through my phloems
Im a shrinking vine with no branches
Growing up nobody told me they love me
I just had to listen to the actions which spoke louder than words
I had to read between the lines
Perhaps thats why I love reading
I probably write in a bid to read between lines now and again
Perhaps thats why I never tell but act
Never did I fit in society
Never was I in a state of sobriety
I was always drunk with cognac thoughts
Drowsy thoughts that made me realise Im nothing but a loner
You may as well call me a goner
Man G ©2016
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