Me

What am I doing?, the strength of a real poet is to speak truth through words but most words I cannot pronounce, I struggle to recite my poems out loud, i realise i have misspelt as I proceed to read so i stop  to correct my writings but by then my words have already lost its magic, I do not know whether to end with a full stop or comma so i keep writing placing punctuations as I please, one blunder after the other, who cares anyways, they will all go to waste. I haven't picked up phone to write in days, I blame it on a hopeless presence but those are all excuses, it isn't writers block because the ideas don't cease to come, I'm afraid all my plans are just mere micro naps, i say i am wide awake and focused but as for my future i fear i hallucinate. i tell myself i will not live like this forever, they will all see me, notice me, i saw a friend today and it reminded me how much my life is a waste and i might do the world a favour and leave in a haste, and of death I am not scared, I am more frightened that I shall be a living dead, my heart beating in a way it does not deserve to, walking amongst the living like one of them, eating and breathing, I do not deserve this luxuries,if they do not see me, if they do not worship me. I refused to be put in a box and as for this poem there is no form, receive it as you please and let it speak to you, let it flow through you, I do not desire you sympathy, do not support because you believe you know what I have been through, this is not a cry for help but a warning, I am here to learn and observe , so when its time for the game there is no denying my checkmate.