These books of constant criticism living inside of his addled mind – a woollen green jumper his favourite thing

Remarkably unkempt and harassed by ceaseless creation – food-faced and living a manky-handed dream

His son Christopher’s been calling, but he’s been ignoring the doorbell, frightened by its thunderous round of a stolen pause

A laureate with no real way out – intensified by insular distraction and these dust-ridden particles never stop to amaze

They said that people like him shouldn’t take the small things to heart but everything has taken him and crucified his being

A capsized smile, mild to the sight of the people who will fail to return to his place of farewell

A sour existence, the pounding of invigorating rain only ever opens up a mammoth necessity for utter promiscuity

Never moved but for a decidedly dilapidated stool that rests by way of a closed window – this plonked down, hidden imbecile has been attempting in vain to make up the deafening difference

His movement none too puppeteered anymore
But he can’t, he won’t, he simply shan’t by way of constrained industry

And all because he’s been plagiarised and propelled midst the posthumous saints of thankless literature, and for no real reason all that he can do is wait

If they saw how hard he had actually tried then they would award him right now – no genius, no nothing, just brilliance relinquished by way of lonely choke-hold

And if they were to search for a clue as to his clichéd existence then they would find it right here, wherein David sits a fallen version of himself
A bag of bones and simply addicted to ‘if only’

Blocked by the very same thing that will take him
To the top – to little, too late this premature intent rests upon four friendly legs again

All of it owing to this animalistic behaviour