When it comes to me putting my foot in things I am a centrefold.
I never feel as good as gold
often I feel have acted too bold
from what I have been told.
Offensive remarks read like a bad scroll
looking bad in all of life’s informal polls
I have really dug myself into a hole.
But I’m just a funny sort
You’d think I hadn’t been taught.
I give my opinion
about popular dominion
A subject that I know absolutely nothing about
like football, ‘Who’s really out?’
Football, tennis, golf or cricket
I don’t know where to buy the ticket
to attend the game
Or the match, is it the same?
I even get soccer and rugby mixed up
Which one is the Cup?
You could say I am not on the ball,
I don’t leave people enthralled.
Schizophrenia makes me like this, you see,
a world sometimes of fantasy
in many ways I feel I am removed from society
I dig up the past
And always come last
In a tunnel of perennial worries and fears
I cannot stay abreast of current affairs
Yet it doesn’t seem fair
That I should bear
People’s funny looks
Conversations can suddenly cease
when inquiring after a deceased.
Or backs turned on me
Immediately
When asking about a pregnancy
When all they’ve done is put on weight
My brain engages a little too late
Now I slowly feel myself being loved and adored
I’m no longer shown the door
I express myself now on the page
It’s a different stage
The writing
Keeps me fighting
This special gift
Gives me a lift
I’m no longer adrift
I can now shine like a jewel
I’m no longer a fool
Starting all over again
My beloved pen
is now my friend.
