It isn’t you, it’s me,

I’m not bloody well blind,

I can bloody well see,

How they look at me.

They cast their glances,

When I’m alone,

Every time it hits me,

Like a tossed stone.

I’m bruised, I’m battered,

I’m battered,

Aching,

Never flattered.

My soul weeps inside,

With every discerning look,

Leaving me in a tide,

Forever flowing as a brook.

So now I’m drowning,

Immersed in my sorrow,

Never am I concerned,

If I don’t see tomorrow.

Escape would be welcomed,

No longer will they look,

I doubt they’d even question,

The life that I took.

As if I haven’t bothered,

To starve myself before,

To alleviate me of my weight,

From the bending floor.

What do they really think,

I’d rather be this way?

Struggling for my breath,

Each and every day.

Do they think I’m happy,

Or possibly not ashamed,

They can’t see the dog,

Inside me taking the blame.

It’s this goddamn situation,

My habitual ebb and tide,

Working for my lifestyle,

Of endless motorway rides.

I know it, I’m horrid,

A disgusting fat pig,

Carrying my weight and sorrow,

They are equally as big.

(c) 2014 PJ Bayliss