I suffer from inaccuracy.
I have never been right on time,
Nor fashionably late.
In fact, I doubt I was anything
Ever, At all.
I lack the grace of being
That so many around me
Adorn their bodies with.
I simply wear this stained lace
of mistakes around my invisible self.
Sitting back I watch Life go on
It seems as though I never existed
Not to anyone, not even to me.
I am in fear of looking in a mirror
To find some stranger staring back.
So I dress myself up in cliches
And they rip me down to bone
Exploiting who I really am
Just a mess of stale air, a mangled heart
and everything in a human that can die.
