ditchwater

i compose prose while hoping i won’t need to impose the pros and cons 

of living a life in or outside a rhyming canon, a rhythmic yarn

dead wood, from dead books, dumped and burnt on my lawn

piles up in pages of papers I guess I could’ve gleaned something from

instead i’ll just sit choking on words that never made it into this poem

my thesaurus is packed full of them, my list’s ten to ten thousand strong

but none of them describe the way i feel every single morning

mourning for the loss of something i can’t even put my finger on

is it fake or fate this face i feel the need to wear along

to the places i drag myself in and out of day after day after dusk after dawn

narcissism’s like that i guess, it’s what you get out of the pond

Author's Note

always ignore my grammar.
very different to my usual style, opinions would be appreciated.