I
I’m not at ease with my heart
nor content with my brain
However possible could it be?
If I but sympathize
with their misery
II
Do I follow them?
Do I fail them?
If I follow, plain
I feel shallow, then
III
Them people, they are dull,
abide by their rules
and will to be dull yourself
Otherwise come endeavor
in a not so irksome task
of being worthier,
if you care to share
No, it’s not a poem, it’s just crooked lines, if you will. I’ve always been into terms with my inability to produce proper poetry in English. Such a mechanical language at times.
Then again, lately I’ve dwelt on whether I still have it in me, or am done for.