These egg shells
Are unbelievable, hard
Fish hooks
In the soft underside
Of feet of leisure
He peers from over his hand
Protruding, and expectant.
There is no smile,
No kindness or love in the
Contours of his face
It’s as if
He wants to bash the creator
On the nose with a rolled up
Newspaper
For making me on this earth.
I regret the regret
For ever existing,
For wanting to apologize
For ever stepping
On the same ground
As him.
I’ve been collecting shame
For too long now
If I reached a pawn shop
And sold it on a loan,
I could buy this country
And burn it to the ground
In the end
All to remain
Are a few ashes
Content with
It’s sad existence.
