there was a man
whose eyes were burning coals
and his words were sleepless nights
barely coherent, they fit
into the sleeves off his brain
a man who spent more on words
than his own feeble shelter
he was a being of unstructured thought
under a trembling order
of conspiracy, conscription, and contesting
a !man of fumbled language
whose instability was his single fault
YOU ARE READING
What's Wrong
Poetrysome of these might not make sense but trust me neither does my mind
