Where did I go
fast through the night?
Ceramic thought, brittle in its sheen
holds a truth not reflected
in many a women's eye.
Hear my resentful cry
spill nonsense when all the time
I am the same as all the rest.
The whole hurts when picking
at pieces.
I thought I was original,
one of a kind, hand hewn.
Cast from a mould
half kilt.
Whose fool am I to think
the catch of the millennium
sits on a sofa
biding her time.
Waiting for a thought
to fire an imagination
.
Emotionally dry cleaned,
amateurishly altered.
Conditioned to fit
a played out space
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