So much time passed me by. All the time I could only sit and cry.
Maturity I’ve got, but not the things that are supposed to come with it.
No matter how hard I try to decry, I cannot deny.
Whatever I have to offer, mostly I’m just a piece of shit.
I keep trying, my apparent fate I defy.
Broken as I am, I still have my intellect, imagination and wit.
I’m not a drowning man, waiting for someone to save the guy.
Just cursed with a combination of traits that suck and make me a misfit.
Tortured artist, girls seem to like that, but not when you look like me and are cripplingly shy.
Still, when I see some of the pricks they go for I have to wonder… what makes me so unfit?
Books of Poetry and Stories: