Less, home

I realise I am less, home.

And it is hard 

To thrive thus.

It is hard

To thrive this.

And although I am 

Not as I was,

I am close 

To being

As I never did want.

Lonely 

In strife;

Alone 

In life.

And when

I inform my strife

That my life

Cannot survive 

A separation 

In all but name,

She will argue

It is I who needs fixing;

Nothing else 

Requires attention.

And all I want to do

Is write clever stuff

About stuff 

No one else has writ.

And all I get 

Is relationships

Which stuff me

Distressed.

Handily and wild.

Tiles of square 

Heards and

Tough bearded

Angers.

Only things

That remind

Of youth:

How uncouth 

Life is becoming 

The person 

I could have been.

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