The self-pitying poor me’s
That restless selfish agenda
Spreader spoiled butter
                              on a fine piece of toast
The boastful explanation
                            on a beautiful landscape
It needs no explaining
And interpretations are
subjective speculations only
Nothing of a permanent fixture
As is with a and the cycle proceeds
My feeding seems undone and useless
Fits feel necessary but I don’t have the space
And never will because
Excuses are easy to come by
What’s the point anyway?
The anointing paradoxes
all lead to the same Sufferings
Opening my arms to embrace it
But nearly everytime
The struggle’s met with more of the same
The fight in a boxful of mirrors
All showing those beautiful flaws
Of which I’d rather frown at,
                      than spring a chuckle
And I am a cuckold in all this
Because I grasp the branch
                  while being pulled in a current
Instead of letting the river release me