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Poem

Sitting by a bookshelf
covered with thick dust
I shower my eyes
with other hands words
written in this book's chafed skin.
Skin that my hands have the only feel of others thoughts
cause actual immobile flesh with a mouth to speak
has never given me an appetite
to stay and chew on chats
My life since young has been me alone
as I grow and others watch
and worst of yet to be born a man
for my hunger for the other sex
is more harsh to my gender...I think
just like a statue that stays in watch
but luckily for me I have mobility
So my capabilities to fill my mind with sights and sounds
could only last so long with an individual that has not touched
touched that is some others flesh
Flesh that wasn't an accidental knock
by a pass by in a walk
a simple blood warmth nudge
to be allowed to go in the hallway
but...it's my own fault...
I stray from the huddles, groups, and masses
I wither of the thought of a question being asked in my direction
failure will be given to myself if I have not a answer
but o....
how I like to watch the happiness that could bud not from a flower
May it seem to me that I am ignorant
but surely I have not received the bliss
for all my wisdom was traded for a sense it seems I may not receive
A hand that could feel harsh and scuffed
unlike that in which is read in books of first love
but a hand none the less
that doesn't mind holding mine
but it's a hard job for me to free amongst others
and I must put some work into it so I could better my chances
my chances of the women that I see in the this store everyday
grabbing the same author
different story, but all the same theme
romance...something that she wants so she reads
I could be her romance...
If I only knew the reed...

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