The Stocks

Energy-draining years
clawing their way over me,
weighing me down,
demanding I look more closely.
Make everything perfect,
see what’s not there to see.
Get beaten with violent criticism
but hear no helpful critique.
Battle to get noticed;
crusade to break free
from every pretender and facade
who are apparently better than me.
The agony of being a wordsmith
tortures me in my sleep.
I’ll never be good enough.
I can never thank you adequately.

Back in my awkward school days
words feigned to be my enemies.
You taught me how to break them down
and made me a devotee
of all authored chef-d'oeuvre;
all lexical artistry.
You are the shivering backbone
behind my constantly suffering poetry.

So, uninspiring layabouts
can say exactly what they choose.
I don’t care for playground insults,
I only want to impress you.

Like Father, Like Son

An evil glint I seem to see
steaming in his eye.
It’s been passed down to younger he
by poison in the pie.

Words of anger, words of hate
the young spills without a thought.
He knows not the abuse’s weight
because that’s not what he’s been taught.

He will say Dad’s words and have his views
and shout them in the street.
This is what he’s been taught to-
Fire bullets in his speech.

‘Despise the foreigner, point and spit;
wound their dirty skin.
It’s your right, you’re a Brit
and this is your country they’re in.