Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
She is insecure
He is insecure
We are all insecure
Everybody is insecure
But I am most insecure of all
She wears bright clothes
He dresses as a country gent
We all wear our Sunday best
Everybody struts as a peacock
I try to look the part
