He takes the meekness of my words
For weakness of my mind and soul.
Perhaps I shouldn’t offer him
A peak into my whole.
Perhaps he only wants to see
A stoic strength and silent toil.
As if his blood is cold as slush,
As if it doesn’t boil.
As if he’s never felt despair
Engorging on his muddy guts.
As if he’s never drowned himself
Amidst the ifs and buts.
He thinks I write to lead, inspire?
I write my truth – my good, my bad.
Some days, I have the strength of soles.
Some days, I wish I had.
So, who is he to sigh at me?
To shake his head a little bit?
I’ll ripple up his very being
With just a ball of spit.