Monday, May 11, 2015


What's in a self that could pose a value
Except for those things perceived?
We play many parts to flaunt false ways
To alter of us what's believed

I can pour out my heart in majestic words
Or at least within my own eyes
Yet zero's its worth in poetless lands
So instead I present forth some lies

"A man should be manly" presents a thought
Yet redundant and obvious frill
We know what it means though this way I'm not--
Minds more than blood would I spill.

Open and sharing, worried and caring
I'd impart all my thoughts for your ears
But rather what's valued's a jersey for sport
Or a gun and a large case of beer

By standards of men, one I am not
Yet one I assuredly am
So I hide away feelings and insecure thoughts
To promote much more of my sham

Even now writing I consider its worth
My mind begins racing in pain
Drivel and spit is what it emits
And sharing would surely be vain

The value to others melds with my thoughts
My own writing is garbage and bunk
The words now infuse a trigger of self
For my heart is equated with junk

Cry for me, woe, is now what I read
Yet this is by no means intended
I give up myself to be what you want
And you know not what you have befriended

I mustn't be me for no value exists
Unless others of me take delight
It's a risk to be sure and one I abhor
For from me I could never take flight

Much better it seems to be more than me
And delude even me what is true
Yet every denial and grasp of a lie
Makes me ever so deeper a blue

This poem, complete, shows I lack decent skill
I'm inclined to hate it with might
And yet it is me, whether I like it or not
The composer of poetry shite!

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