I look through the mirror and wonder at what I see
Staring back at me through tired eyes
And wearing skin
I write words on mobile phones and I can't help but think
Am I as fake as I feel
Does my incessant need to explore the depths of this
Constant aching husk mean anything
Is any of it real
I write in scattershot day dreams to see what sticks
Probably 10% of it is okay
I'm ageing... I can feel it creeping in from the gut up
Doors keep on closing but in their wake there remains
The few unopened
I write about these few remaining paths
Out of desperation
Perhaps if I owned a typewriter or a little book
I would feel more secure
No comments:
Post a Comment