What's with those perky lurky hands,
No work of a fancy fella inspite,
A simple thought could not be more,
Lies there upright in his eyes,
Ended a truth and left forlorn.
Getting on a regular day,
Not so regular, just so sad,
thoughts unrecognised of dismay.
Not wished a hope, he sat,
Did not walk or spied his way,
Let out a sigh in the mirror,
Questioned himself more than once,
Like a loser held back thinking clear,
Did someone care about his existence,
While he was left there mere.
YOU ARE READING
The Inner Me || Wattys 2017
PoesíaA collection of poems written by a lonely girl who lived years back. Highest ranking #58 in poetry
