by Nick Gisburne
My skin, a squalid stratum of disgust
A robe to warm the misery beneath
Becomes, by day, by night, a crippled crust
A disappointing, stinking, shrivelled sheath
I feel the filthy fingers of decay
Embracing my disintegrating bones
With every drop of life I piss away
I stain my soul with sickly undertones
I feel no flawed connection with my flesh
A foul, organic accident of birth
If all my waking nightmares were to mesh
Their bitterness would spit upon my worth
Reminded that my face will never fit
I swim in fortune’s suffocating shit
