Poetry & Rhymes

On being burnt out

My god do I feel so worn out,
no longer do I feel I can stand and shout.
There was a day I could forge ahead and fight,
I could win long battles with all of my might.

For every day I grow smaller and weaker,
no longer can I be the strong and proud speaker.
Arguments and debates I no longer partake,
the policies and authorities can I no longer shake.

No longer in my life can I deal with the stress,
I've even had enough of trying to impress.
Give me my peace, my quiet and my space,
keep the long drawn out hassles out of my face.

Few can deal with me for I'm a tranny,
you know the one with the weird type o' fanny.
They smile, they dither or they turn their glances away,
little do they realise how the latter makes you so grey.

The isolation, the loneliness and life's sheer desolation,
they wonder, feel confused and want an explanation.
I've no enthusiasm to partake in life's greatest excitements,
bad employers have fouled my interest for the good employer's enticements

The authorities and the government, they make excuses and they dither,
while we wait for the laws, the people and the world just make us bloody wither.
Whilst in the papers, the telly and on the big radio too,
they continue their stories of trannies in the women's loo.

They've taken our dignity, our pride and our sense of self respect,
blood and flesh they've had from us, just what more do they expect?
People tell me I've done huge things and made great progress,
they forget it wasn't a choice, just how much more should I digress?

Though I rest and play to avoid all the battles,
It's because I've lost the energy to enjoy the good rattles.
If people could understand my innermost pain and torment,
then they'd see the great big waves and highest torrent.

Our community now is full of disarray and turmoil,
all broken down because of this life's huge toil.
So I look ahead and see a future I do,
no joy in that as I think it's all poo.

A glimmer of hope I seek forever more,
I know I'll find it as I walk along the sea shore.
I'll remember the poster about god's footsteps in the golden sand,
It's then I'll pray he was always around to hold tight my hand.

Krystyna Haywood © 2003

My god do I feel so worn out,
no longer do I feel I can stand and shout.
There was a day I could forge ahead and fight,
I could win long battles with all of my might.

For every day I grow smaller and weaker,
no longer can I be the strong and proud speaker.
Arguments and debates I no longer partake,
the policies and authorities can I no longer shake.

No longer in my life can I deal with the stress,
I've even had enough of trying to impress.
Give me my peace, my quiet and my space,
keep the long drawn out hassles out of my face.

Few can deal with me for I'm a tranny,
you know the one with the weird type o' fanny.
They smile, they dither or they turn their glances away,
little do they realise how the latter makes you so grey.

The isolation, the loneliness and life's sheer desolation,
they wonder, feel confused and want an explanation.
I've no enthusiasm to partake in life's greatest excitements,
bad employers have fouled my interest for the good employer's enticements

The authorities and the government, they make excuses and they dither,
while we wait for the laws, the people and the world just make us bloody wither.
Whilst in the papers, the telly and on the big radio too,
they continue their stories of trannies in the women's loo.

They've taken our dignity, our pride and our sense of self respect,
blood and flesh they've had from us, just what more do they expect?
People tell me I've done huge things and made great progress,
they forget it wasn't a choice, just how much more should I digress?

Though I rest and play to avoid all the battles,
It's because I've lost the energy to enjoy the good rattles.
If people could understand my innermost pain and torment,
then they'd see the great big waves and highest torrent.

Our community now is full of disarray and turmoil,
all broken down because of this life's huge toil.
So I look ahead and see a future I do,
no joy in that as I think it's all poo.

A glimmer of hope I seek forever more,
I know I'll find it as I walk along the sea shore.
I'll remember the poster about god's footsteps in the golden sand,
It's then I'll pray he was always around to hold tight my hand.

Krystyna Haywood © 2003