(For National Poetry Month I am writing a stream-of-conscious poem per day. Each poem is  a spontaneous poem single edit – could get messy!  Here is Poem #13.)

Can you see him over there?
He’s the one – now hush. Don’t stare.
Keep it quiet, keep it low;
Don’t let your fear start to show.

He’s a madman round the bend,
thinks I want to be his friend.
Sends me flowers every day,
Just won’t stop – what can I say?

Always staring at my chest,
Although, really, see I’m blessed,
with cleavage beyond compare,
Doesn’t matter what I wear.

Still in all, and anyway,
He should listen what I say:
I’ve no interest in his love.
Standing near, he chills my blood.

There he is now back again,
Oh my god, he’s such a pain.
Have you heard him try to speak?
Sad and shallow; rather weak.

Men that mumble have no right,
to be hoping for a night.
I just wish he’d go to hell;
Even die – would do as well!

I hear he was born that way,
– Now’s our chance to steal away –
Quasimodo’s such a freak,
with that twisted up physique.