Smitten

Yes, I’ll admit I was smitten,

And that by the love bug I was bitten,

But tales of romance are never written,

For us ugly ogres – who don’t fit in.

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Unworldly

In the early stages of my Life’s construction,

I would unwittingly press the button,

Of Self-Destruction.

I did this when I could never find,

The Self-Confidence,

To bring me any peace of mind.

Since this confidence remains elusive,

And its lacking still an obstruction,

I can’t but help remain reclusive,

Until I bring about my Life’s reconstruction.

I could never have foretold,

That by merely feeling unworthy,

Such damage would unfold,

Such damage that’s proving- unworldly.

 

I’m Tired

I’m sick and tired,

Of feeling sick and tired.

Is all this merely a result of how my brain is wired?

Or is this malaise somehow acquired,

Or perhaps a result of some plot, conspired?

I yearn for relief from this state, undesired.

For how much longer must I feel like an entity, expired?

Blot

Might she be able to love me,

If I obtain perfection?

For surely I am unworthy,

To even the most lenient of perception.

Why would anyone settle for less?

Why would anyone settle for the mess,

That I am?

Can I ever be admired,

For where I am?

Can I ever be loved,

For what I am?

For even my yearning,

Doesn’t make up,

For what I’m not.

And it cannot replace,

What I haven’t got.

And it doesn’t avail,

The blot – that is me.

 

 

Changing Seasons

Winter’s arriving,

And a part of me is glad.

Though when one season comes,

The other must depart,

Which usually leaves me feeling sad.

This Summer’s progress though has been but few,

And I know Winter leaves little chance to start anew.

The Summer was filled with sunshine,

But without much rain,

Which made progress a pain,

And since something was lacking,

I hardly made a gain.

So I enter Winter still searching for missing pieces,

But should I hope for what I’m looking for,

In the season when almost everything decreases?

 

 

 

 

 

Perhaps

Perhaps, if I were stone,

And not made of flesh and bone,

It wouldn’t hurt this much,

To be so lowly.

Perhaps, if I were withered grain,

Without blood flowing through my veins,

It wouldn’t hurt this much,

To feel so lonely.