poem #44

Written in Amsterdam, copied from hand written text, couldn't read my own handwriting hence "sh???"

It's funny how i can write about me being wrong

But i suppose thats a per cent of us being born

No need to loosen the grip the silver-backed claws have on me

For to figure yourself out you attain mirrored mystery

 Please fill up my clouded head, i can’t stand tall, i sh???, i’m dead

When i attempt to reason with you, you aren’t there

When i attempt to think, you stare or don’t care

So you win when i spin, but don’t allow a grin, for

The world is a slither, it’s mother-f*****g thin

You need to remind every mind in the maze

That your thoughts often stumble around in a daze

My soaking wet ground made of gravel and grit

Knows nothing of my puzzle, my greatest hits

Would you like a crisp letter, to know how i feel

No? Then don’t f**k around, believe this is real

And 2 wheeled frames pass, it’s so swift

Maybe they can give my mind a lift