I am wilted. I am weary.
I am weathered. I am worn.
I am stuffed with seeping sadness, and stewed in sticky, seething scorn.

I am deflated. Thoughts debunked.
And I am drowned in desperate dread.  
When I soak my roots in water, I find it dries them out instead.

I am wilted. I am weary.
I am wilted. I am worn.

a crack in the glass
a moldy fruit in a fruit basket
a torn page in a book
a broken branch in a tree
a difficult puzzle in a newspaper
a high note in a quiet song

we didn’t match
we never did
but i tried
and i’m tired

I fell from grace
When i burnt it
all to the ground.
You told me to never
Contact you again;
Ripping me from your life
like I was your biggest sin.

But the thing
with unspoken fears,
They’re fueled by betrayal,
And burn for years.

I gave it an extra r
just in case you ?
that I can’t spell !

The Greeks use
beads just like we
did for the rosary.

It’s all about minds,
trying to keep them
occupied I do poetry.

My head’s a cesspool
over active can’t dumb
it down not even sleep.

Once were worriers was
a New Zealand Māori film
I did a bit of it there too.