A man I am not
Gentle constricted pain filled tears roll off my face on to tile
Good at anything is a joke to me now
The last academic pleasure whisked out the window by another F
Why
Simple guilt draws from my chest asking why god to whom never response
To blame yes I
The fault is my own
It was me
All my own
Now I’m unaccompanied left to face this crippling world
To leave this stall with shot flushed eyes
A loser until death has become apparent  
Or it will trend to be bad at everything
In such a day they will call me the saltan of fashion.