The Poverty Of Self-Loathing

The poverty of self- loathing The of the cloak of poetry I once wore does not protect me against my insecurity the fear of being destitute. Nowhere to hide when the northwesterly blows and happy people dance at a restaurant to the music, I composed in my heart. Steamed up café windows people eating broth gesticulate with forks to get me away to eat their food in peace. I have enough money for a cup of coffee but they will not let in the drowning cat. Never mind I lost my nerves but it will be better when I write this down and my notebook is dry with self-loathing.