© July 24, 2018. All Rights Reserved.
I’m not good.
I’m not good enough.
I’m not good enough.
I’m not good enough.
Incapacitated, I’m touched
By nonesuch beauty, so unclutched.
Much, I’ve been confined in a hutch,
Where I’ve reread and spoken Dutch.
Words unsaid are useless when dead.
I’ve shed blood from my eyes, widespread
Till I can get French bread like men,
But women are trophies like skin.
Must I sin? Men do what women love,
So acceptance differs above.
I flee to grip pillows at night
Till my breathing blocks my eyesight.
Rights are downright rites like birthright,
Despite sound bites for the Twelfth Night.
Gesundheit! I never backbite.
All right, I’m awake. The night’s bright.
Delighted to be under the moonlight,
My airtight lungs weeps like hindsight,
Holding on tight like serenades,
Then, my mind has gunfights, betrayed.
I’m not good.
I’m not good enough.
I’m not good enough.
I’m not good enough.
Isaiah Lawrence 