I’ve been asked why I write sad poetry,
Never been asked what makes me sad.
Why don’t all lines end in perfect symmetry?
Blank verse is incomplete, boring and bad.
I’ve been judged for my plain appearance.
What colour am I ? I’m brown with specks of black.
I’m fat – that’s acknowledgement of my existence.
Hypocrites think I’m just another joke to crack.
Perhaps I’m an old dusty book in a forgotten library,
Yellow with age, stained and a little moth eaten.
My words sound either fictional or too real and scary.
Emotionally manipulated and seldom mentally beaten.
I’ve been asked why I’m silent, cold and lonely.
No, your love doesn’t fill the cracks in my heart.
For I know what you crave – Alas! Just half of me.
And I’m not just flesh and bones – I’m a spiral work of art.