He doesn't know what his purpose is.
Does he even have one?
Is he a giver?
A taker?
What is it?
All he does now is wash dashes in a nasty restaurant with cheap, foamy soap that barely cleans the dishes.
Not that anyone would notice that.
He doesn't want to live this way forever,
But his bad luck is ceaseless.
There's no way that something good would happen to him.
At least not in this life.

I am sorry
grips and grows
when I was fun.
And I bore into you.

I bore you.

The endless throes
Leaving you with nothing to say
of the insatiable soul
at the end of the
like the solitary smell
your obligation

But I am sorry that
because of me
like the rip and the hole
you can't enjoy the sun,
and the silence binds
poor man's sole.

Dropped on the situation,
When the penny has
Leaving me clutching at straws.
You never knew me.
I could be sorry that
to your skin
of your family home
Misery sticks.

still smile.
Your silence is a kind of
Yet, still I don't.
A name can be home to many faces.
There's more for me to see
The other way.
I know you more;
You could be the first point of contact,
They both were in love
Make of me, but
And she he;
With melancholy.
Shut;
Unsaid.
An impartial judge to this acquaintance.
Heat,
The words of then are bled.
As to Yeats Inisfree.
Do not be familiar to me.
For he liked her,
But you are self-interested and
If only for awhile.
I am no more than what you
But when swept in a drunken
From words that were left
As we age
But, at the end of the day,
They wish it were
to me
Our bodies decay;
****** upon my hand-crafted pedestal,
But it had to end.
It conjures memories, feelings
Grief,
'Cause I was glad to have known you,
Define me.
No less than how you
Our minds grow and
The sea is.
It's sad hearing yours, although I
and long forgotten places.
But keep your mouth and desires.