I do not write my poetry for no-one; yet, another one
And every dawn, i do not reason why they have to go
—On about mystic my work chaperon to them,
Mystic is me but with more time you waste on me,
You will break the mystery and learn more about me.
And i have wasted more time on me; more time as
If the sun will never shine, with just me—
And bed-spreads, head-warmer, books which
I never read, newspapers, inedible diet, a reflector to
View my ripping face and every dawn, another day.
If wondered, why not liquor?; with liquor i cannot write
Or heed what goes on around me, or see maybe she love
Me loyally like i know she loves herself, or tell her a myth;
About how a drunken bloke does nothing but write and
Writes and wish he never wrote.
What comes to my notice, what my eyes will never skip;
Is she never looks exquisite like an angel i would keep,
And i believe she wished; she never looked just like me,
And writes like me and wished she never wrote to me.