Reading a slim book of poetry
Of life and it's mutability
Poems from inside of
A safe, cosy middle class cocoon
The words have no sharp edges
To burst the balloon
Poems about flowers
To while away the hours
Between the visit of the vicar
And the next *** of tea
Not poetry for you and me
Or anything like reality
Poetry as a gentle hobby
Like baking
Or flower arranging
Not poetry from the gut
That comes​ raging
Like fists planted upon the page
Poems of love or loss or rage
But tenderly placing
Each word on the page
Like a delicate flower to be arranged
I don't hate the woman
Who wrote this stuff
For her this obviously is enough
I envy her easy life
It's lack of struggle
It's lack of strife
Perhaps one day it will be me
Writing of such superficialities
When I'm fat, well fatter
Rich and content
And all of my life- force has been spent
I will sit in my garden and smell the flowers
Then while away my hours
On my hobby, writing poetry
Between the visit of the vicar
And my next *** of tea

Beware
A serious search for truths
Of deeper existential matters
Can change the way you believe and think.

Unfortunately
Most shall never
Reach their roof
In the shadows of facts
And lack of proofs

In the cave that's given
Surrendered to roles
Sheltered in comforted
Feeble to old

Coming back around
To repeat life again
Judging, labeling
Assigning sin
Limiting love
To the circles within

We bind ourselves
By our beliefs
Only a traveling
Mind is truly free
....