I’m aware of my failures,
I’m wary of neighbours,
I fret and I feast
in the face of faux dangers.
I listen to strangers,
their ignorant flavours,
a fools’ witless buffet
to feed my displeasure.
I’m hurt beyond measure
entangled in heather
that brushes the hills
of childhood oppression.
I listen to strangers
despite my intentions,
hearing them sing
the ballads of depression.
I’m aware of my failures
which visit me nightly,
raw and unkindly,
a guest without gifts.
A tale and a tryst,
infected and kissed,
this is who I am
despite my wishes.
© Davey Cobb 2022 All Rights Reserved
Davey Cobb 