the poverty of self loathing

The poverty of self- loathing


The of the cloak of poetry I once wore

does not protect me against my insecurity

the fear of being destitute.

Nowhere to hide when the northwesterly blows

and happy people dance at a restaurant

to the music, I composed in my heart.

Steamed up café windows people eating broth

gesticulate with forks to get me away

to eat their food in peace.

I have enough money for a cup of coffee but

they will not let in the drowning cat.

Never mind I lost my nerves

 but it will be better when I write this down

and my notebook is dry with self-loathing.

◄ odd is the poet

the love ►


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Thu 10th Jan 2019 17:15

Jan great observational poetry.

read with a side dish of sadness.

Nice work


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