I've trashed the years
and never blinked,
nor cried a tear
for a lost chance.
It flowed,
the swelling rivers of honey and milk,
‎at my feet,
which i never counted or held dear.
So what,
‎for my shabby soul,
‎i lived and died here.

You say, i could ask for a little help,
at least kneel down in a silence, for prayer
or implore to wisdom of common sense,
embracing defeat,
succumb and concede.
So what,
i dont feel sorry for what i did.

I am trying to be humble,
though unconcscious of what that means,
palping the boundaries of dreams,
scratching old wounds,
that heal and redeem
with every probable sin.

Don't expect me with dazzling
success,
throwing treasures at your feet.
No words of comfort i can offer
under the glimmering stars,
brightly lit.
A mere sorrow.
Only defeat.

You can throw a few lies to trick my mind,
pretending to value its eccentricity,
while you don't give a ****.
So what,
i am a regular guy.
You might still pity me,
but never love.