Things you're not comfortable with, but you live with and never write about,
things that fester which you should shout about, should let them out, but we keep them internal, note them down in the journal which is hidden away,
things we keep for the rainy days to add to the gloom.

My eyes are accustomed to the sepia edgings of my room in this building where I'm lodging,
like dogs in the manger, we tenants, scratch at the lottery tickets hoping for the instant win and yet haven't got a penny or a *** to **** in.

Things will get something and something is better than nothing and yet I've  got everything,
but thinking of what I don't need is another need is it not?