Blabbermouth

All I am is awkward,
Ungainly,
And unkempt.
My tumbled, jumbled words a muddle,
A high-pitched blur,
A wreck.

I hear myself
As if another
And inwardly mock;
Contemptful of this thing
This sad, forlorn contrivance
Longing for affection
For affinity
For eternity
Who yet makes certain
Unfulfillment

With sonic rambling
Buffeting all who approach
In windy wasteful wishy-washy twaddle.