concerning an article in the sunday times, titled baited, 13 - 16 year old girls, a mix of cyberbullying, revenge **** & creepshots... ah... here comes lady burqa, to set the standard of civilised behaviour... now... i can't agree that islamophobia exists... but sure-**** i can testify to a burqa-phobia... hell! i can even attest to a niqab-phobia, and to be honest... that, that is a reasonable phobia... let's use the proper terms, please! anyway... regarding this baiting... oh man, these ***** ought to have known better, as those taking the selfies... why? because i'm starting to think that people take more photographs, than actually blink with their eyes... whatever happened to the mirror?

some people strive for ambitious lives,
   head over heels types,
    the ones in microcosmos of
their own ***...
    me? i, just, want, my, life,
to represent, the lazy consistency
of a sunday...
          for my life to be as busy as...
                                      sunday traffic;
it's not a self-doubt that's plaguing me,
i'm not an automaton yet,
             but with that i wonder:
   if they have all the hormones and
chemical compounds excavated
to represent *love, which ones are
         the ones to represent doubt?
doubt? oh, those minor "panic-attacks",
the fun bits of being alive
   living inside the dynamism
                                  of uncertainity...
i was ambitious once - now?
        well, i know i stop enjoying
   fiendish sudoku puzzles, and rest
my case on the difficult tier...
                there's no point striving:
if you don't enjoy it -
    as harsh as it might sound -
         poetry will always speak to me in
the tongue of impromptu -
    with eyes of lightning flashes -
as long as it remains in this state -
  i'll be content -
   i can't imagine a novel,
the tedium of it, the constipation -
the rewriting, the 2 to 3 years -
with the only merit attached to a novel
is solely based on how long
it took to be written...
               constipated / frustrated
novelists, i can image...
                    on the other hand...
it's quiet easy to imagine ******
snowflake poets too.