Over finely feathered lain lawn were all my insecurities born. A thimble full of how and whys,spaciously spread,along with tear full red-rimmed eyes.

Yesterday has gone,tomorrow can wait. Presently I weep bottom lip trembling as I speak. Cards upon the table of life,off balance and very unstable.

Spinning wheel of exploitation,please stop your rotation of accusations. Spoon full of lies take too the skies. Wishful thinkers remove those blinkers. Over clothed dressers make good your confessions.

No good for my own self worth. Imperfection on a high thermal swept surf. My expectations are on an highway that is seldom being ridden.

Be gone! Current of scorn.

Sad eyes give birth too realise, on an age long humble sky,of a Thistle Strewn Pie.