((Because I was tired of other people's poems about how their life was so bad.))
Less than a man
More than a child
Unable to be anything.
Trapped in a torment
Of endless ambiguity.
Sleep the only reprieve.
Mired in self.
Doubt, pity, death
And a trembling hand reaching out
To caress a naked breast.
Monday, 25 June 2007
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