by Simon Mansfield

Created on: September 20, 2010

Sorry

I'll never stand on a battlefield
I'll never go to war
The only fighting I'll ever do
Is with words with which I bore

You all to death, should I yield?
Because I'm no quick draw
And the only line I'll stand up to
Is on a page, and the more

I write in my well heeled
Shoes, my rotten core
Is fit for nothing but to stew
And cause pain for those I adore

Who tell me it's cool when I've revealed
Their secrets, painfully raw,
In poems and rants, of which a few
Like this one, are extremely poor.

Surrenders no option, fates are sealed
There's no way for me to restore
The faith in me, from you,
You know who you are, deplore

Me not, I have no choice but to wield
My bedsit poetry, meow not roar
It's what I perpetually spew
And no way to even the score

With the world and those who reeled
Me in, whose lies I believed, I swore
Then, that only the true
Were fit for me not to ignore.

Sorry.

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