I have to convince the world
about who I am,
to become somebody,
not the odd man in dark sunglasses,
the psycho killer,
the benefit scrounger.
These benefits streets are not paved with
gold.

I am the lion of madness,
an owner of words,
farmer of doubts.
I want to spread love,
and sow the seeds of hope
but you see the mad me.
The man without a
face. A scythe hangs over my head.
We can share a thought on mankind,
we are the sane,
the same I mean.

I am alone, stumbling with
my words now, they disown me,
perhaps we can share a moment,
now it’s gone.
Will you write me a
sonnet, of the way we are?
For I am yours, you
are mine, a communion
of life. And yet we
will never become
friends.

By: David Holloway

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