Sat contemplating
the pain is lifting
but here it comes, here it goes
left me stuck in it, wondering
where I've gone wrong with it
That smell, you can tell
it's not who you think
so hurt and so lost
I turn to my ink
Why does no one realise
the walking smell that continues to rise
that continues to continue
keeping it its pride
when lives around me, including mine
are forced by doubt to hide?
This isn't right.
It's not here now, i know
but I can hear it
I can smell it
makes my organs rot and perish
Only just a thought
brings back memories i have fought
not here now,
but it will be.
And I am not ready.