My pencil broke two words in.

My autobiography remains unwritten.

A wolf raised by sheep.
Waiting.

i am malleable.
i could be a succinct calamity
with small macabre alcoves
full of the furies from my heart

do not open them-
i am pandora.
still, without them
i am impenetrable.

i can be a composition.
a lullaby, or some sweet aria
with a gargantuan finish.
or, just silence - a statue
in shy circumstance.

i have an obnoxious heart
that just can't handle love
with any dignity:
i am every figurative phoenix
and i will see light again.

i am malleable.
but for the love of god
do not hurt me.

What’s poetic about a foundry worker’s son,
Born and bred in Leeds, now idling my time away
In a rinky **** seaside town? What’s poetic
About sitting on my laptop reading Facebook
And pressing Like now and then? It’s got me typing
Like a modern poet, no rhyme or metre to be seen.
I’m going to (roughly) count the syllables then chop this
Into verses. Then post it on my favourite
Poetry sites, plus my blog.

Perhaps there’s poetry in me being a Working Class Boy made good.
In me being a Pro Careers Worker after failing
My Eleven Plus. Even got to Grammar School
For a couple of years. Taught English for six.

The Internet is my Salvation.
Television too.
Is that prosaic enough for you?
**** that rhymed! Knowledge and images,
That yet beget… and much more too.
No need to be there in person.
Just enjoy.

Each one of us writes an autobiography
Pages composed with anecdotes and memories
Pen dipped in the ink from our soul

I'm uncomfortable with everything,
lying here on your floor
at four in the morning
     in my world of blah. 
I've been awake for hours,
listening to your sounds…
     the breaths in
                     and out. 
And I just want to cuddle up,
push my back against your chest
     and feel my head rest 
     in its rightful place. 
But there's no room for me. 
     …story of my life.