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Poem	Wild are my ways, wilder than you think You will find me standing a little left of frame You will find me a little away from the meeting place I am that and much more, insignificant me. Yes I am the one with the faraway look Of sailors of vast dreamy oceans I look at faraway seas and mountains And wonder why they aren’t near. There’s great bitterness and dejection That churns, congeals and emanates in my words I think, I write, I orate, because I must The anguish is great, there’s an ocean’s churn. The world passed me by while I wandered Over the personal deserts and wastelands of my life To stories I wrote and the stories became me Characters became me and I became them. Crap me, scrap me, scratch me you will find A man too deeply obsessed by observing the world Who feels his words and sentence lay trapped Inside him crying for want of pixels and time. Out there he stands that man on a moonlit night Shining like a tube and ranting like one possessed Talking his story that no one cares to understand Because it’s not his story but ghost stories they craved!
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