In over a month I haven't touched poetry.
It's like my goal is at the top of the tree
But all I do is sit beneath it like a wilting flower.
Waiting until somebody builds me a tower.
Then nobody comes and nobody helps me.
They try, they just don't...
At this point, just let me be.
If you think a book will help, it won't.
If you think I'm functioning, I'm not.
Yesterday I went to the shop,
Saw a pretty leaf and left it there to rot.
A tree for sure I couldn't chop,
But wait for it to chop itself - I can.
If you think I'm living in luxury, I'm not.
Even though I get payed thrice the minimum.
All I hope to do is tie a knot.
How luxurious, of course, is this curriculum.
If you think I'm fat, ugly, stupid and misguided, I'm not.
That's not the reason for my suffering.
I just smoke a lot of pot.
Now inside my brain a leaf is rustling.
The leaf I couldn't choose to kill,
The leaf on which I write my will.
How can you, tell me please,
Your own throat so tightly squeeze...