Always alone, never hearing a sound
Laying in a heap upon the ground
Crying, trying to understand why
Inside I feel I should die
Hating myself and all I stand for
Yet I know you're shit and I'll go back for more
Unable to stop 'cause it's what I feel I deserve
Feeling like shit, there's nothing left of me to preserve
I'm a horrible person but nobody can see
That life would be better off without me
I'm this and that, that's all I hear
No wonder my mind's full of fear
You constantly tell me I'm no good
Never once been treated like a girl should
You never told me I was pretty or nice
Like a gambler, I just have to roll the dice
Hope for a good day whenyou don't call me a name
Always wishing I wouldn't bring you shame
But I'll never be the one you want deep down
So I'll forever walk with a frown
Upon my face looking so sad
'Cause I know I'm nothing but bad.
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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