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Poem

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

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