A Poor Oaf Poem by Karina Lakeyeva

My soul’s a clot under the skin
But I still force a smile.
My laughter & my sobs are kin.
It sticks out a mile.
There is my being and my hip.
I miscreat myself,
A poor oaf, like to lip
The Rain like the ex-elf.
You may accuse me of a lie,
Oddly enough. You may…
And you may never want to die
With me. You’re like all they.
The ford of my erratic thoughts
Will take me to the other ports.