This is a 'failed poem' from within my old hard drive-

I don't want to be the rain
that falls wrong against the
lip of the bad girl's cap.
Her fit dress gets messed in
the wind and I get rosey/rosie/rosy cheeked
by glassy stares from dry-paper
schoolgirls who wait patiently,
profoundly, with the thunder
of a wind-tossed skirt
among the yew line and cry out loud
into devices their worries and whimsy
and whatevers.
All I want is a soft place for
the next ten years. I want to never feel
gravel along my nail.
I woke up for years alone, purposefully, ( Or so I will lie.)
Drunk often and filled with whatever produce
doesn't melt in an Army Navy satchel: I know
the hunger that fills you when you stumble
in from the cold, November, erect and wanting
with the cold floor and a false relationship
hanging on the words of a judgemental
step-mother. No little lovers,
not any more.