My Confidence Has Suffered

A Poet tell the best stories, It’s a daily struggle for me, when I am on Schedule, to show up there….at 3035 I usually take one foot slowly off the bed I have to transform my body into someone else Her name is Waverly, the most frequent alters, a pretender, but not like the mouthy poet (A.L) Seven hours of lies, trying to make ends meet Twenty eight years of deceits, show in the receipts Of hard, hard labor, and the back breaking toil of the day The pointy nose, hold on to fake clipboard Should I hate them, the system or me? They is so many of us low renter in that place But in the days of the corvid corona 19 These, days there are So many of them Uprising, coming and leaving, the drilling Should I hate them, the system or me? The ones who tell the best story Is the most observant one, to the craft? A river is a body of water With lot of stories to tell Sadness and happiness, My experiences there comes with pain, Shame and mostly the sadness of Staying at one place so lengthy!! My restless spirit is now catching on to me Is it too late for me, for us? Me or my altered or just I Oh, how I remembered them so well Within each new poet there is a new idea Each new idea brings a zest to future poems The new poet fades too soon: so has the pointy nose They never, stays, but memories of them, stain like glass Taking the memories of their appearances like shadows over the sun: Did i really had years of experience or just years of daily repeats