A coward;
A weakling,
Unable to stand on his own,
A sorry mess of a poet,
With nothing but lies
To tell and feel;
A scapegoat,
Without a soul to lean on,
One that confides solitude
In the few people he cares about,
And that leaves him about;
A restless ******,
Without strength to be alone
And an eye for uncertainty;
Yet he hurts by himself
And hurts himself,
Yet he says he's fine
With a smile close to crying,
Yet he speaks not to others
And not even to himself
What he feels;
He still stands
But he thinks not for long,
Not for long
Until he tries again.
And fails;
A defect,
Useless and better off dead