he supposes
he's never been very good
at anything -
not bad,
not unfailingly, hopelessly so,
not like the scrawny kid
in class that
everyone picks on
because he is so
monstrously horrible
at things.
no, he is neither good
nor bad at anything.
he is painstakingly
ordinary.
he is the kind of
boy whose name
people forget.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Poetry(n.) a homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was. an anthology of visceral verses and pretentious poetry. (this is a collection of my shorter pieces).
