Friday, 30 March 2018

What a looker.

Last night I saw a look, I haven't seen for a while.
Looked like the taste of sick, lingering behind a smile.
You saw me as a disease: odious, and vile.
There aren't any floral notes in the bouquet of bile.
You reprimanded me as though I were a child.
I felt as though the executioner was a witness at the trial.
And if you'd had the chance you would have run half a mile.
I thought love was unconditional, but that may be too wild.
Maybe I was in ignorant bliss, peppered with denial.
I may not be attractive, tanned and toned with teeth like tiles.
But I like to think with what I have I can make it out in style.
Last night I died a little, another thing on the pile.
One day I'll organise it and have some proper files.
For now I'll bury it and hope it doesn't resurface when I'm old and senile.