Here it is....

No, not a poem, but the start of an imaginative story. Written by yours truly, it is about a man (not very right in the head of course) and is set in the Victorian times around the 1850's (not written in old English language though).

I haven't yet completed it, I only started it today...

And there I was standing on logical grass believing in dust mites over my weak, bland body.

I choked and concentrated on my breathing. I live for weak competitors; it’s my home and food.

Starving to death, I reach out for the nearest substitute, oh not this, not this again! I lower my head in sadness. The bleak morning sunshine hit my fair face with all power.

The tans were sickening, oh bleak morning why be so cruel? I’m pallor and feeble and thirsty.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m nice. I need to be loved and digested properly in the right measurements. I feed myself, wait. I’m harbour of lies. I feed you ten, twenty maybe thirty a day.

I walked passed a man today, surely not much older than myself. He asked me how to get to Euston from here. Please don’t ask why I lied and lead him the opposite direction because I just don’t know. I feel very ill and I don’t look my best you know, I believe it to be acceptable for this case at hand.

The truth is I’m not meant to be here. I ran like a barbarian leaping for the kill. I’m dressed in the most comfortable fabrics, the only ones I could find. A yellowing shirt, blackened trousers. It doesn’t matter, I’m here now.

The passers-by stare towards my vacant expressions. They laugh but I don’t care, I am only human. I found this was the perfect time to ask myself questions about what I shall do. Are you now homeless? Yes, where are you going to stay? I haven’t the faintest idea.

I’m very much condemned to be impecunious for years to come.

I’m walking the streets of a harsh London area, on my way to nowhere. I hear the fracas around me, the music around me, a din, repetitious noise.

I take a glass bottle off the hard ground and gazed into it deeply.

:)

Heres the obsession;

Yep, Owen Brinley, you're in our hearts. You musical genius you.

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