I wanted to bury what
I truly feel in this poem
but the anonymous
readers wants
to see if there's something
in this that would
push them further away
from the dead seconds
they'll be spending reading
but I keep failing them,
my sleeves are torn
and my flowers dead,
the words are dry
and the manning
operator of
the stream of my consciousness,
fat, balding and
unwillingly resigned to
the facts.
there is no more spit left
to spit and I've conjured
all the bad things out there.
All these words I have in here
are only here to expand
this poem;
and as the readers doubts
more,
I have to take this
part now to say what I really
mean:
You just can't expect life
to be as fair as how does
the wealthy have it
on their daily plates,
but don't get me wrong,
they have problems too
but not big enough
to drive anyone of them
to write this kind
of poem.

And yes,
I don't expect you
to find my shoes
appealing.