Kinda ironic
I write poems and find myself
writing about how much I hate English.
I don't want to read
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde again
or analyse a play!
No matter how interesting.
The themes are the the themes
and the characters the story tellers
but to me it's just words
No link in my head.
Every sentence is read.
Then the next,
makes no sense.
It all seems out of context
but no one realises
I don't know what the ****
the teacher goes on and on about,
it goes over my head.
I can't explain my ideas
because I can't make them myself
and I can't understand where anyone else's are from.
So I lead my self on a tangent,
that could go on and on repeating itself
that could go on and on repeating itself
that could go on and on repeating itself
but will never come back to the beginning.
Writing aimlessly
but no one seems to see;
it's all nonsense to me.
Kinda ironic.