by Daniel Hill
Morose I am because a rose is a rose,
fed up of being labelled just another one of those,
to think we’re all alike proves to me lame,
even a rose has no two thorns the same.
So, do I have to have stubble on my face,
before you go out of your way or your place,
or a car with a big bank balance to show,
before you realise how little of me you know.
I usually don’t write poems in this way,
but it all just hit me stanza and verse,
along with these wounds that are too deep to nurse.
So now I sit to wallow in grief,
aimed at the moment I lost self belief,
but Shakespeare I ask do you quiver asunder?
Oh I forgot, you’re six feet under…