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The troubles.



I see her passing most days,

With her long black hair and rosy cheeks.

That worried look is always on her fresh face

And no wonder.



She has to pass this corner gauntlet

Five days a week.

Little does she know my heart skips

And breaks all at the same time

Whenever I see her.



I spit forth my bitterness of hate

As hot red flushes of rage and guilt

Attack both my cheeks.



“Catholic shite!



It is all over in moments

Rather than minutes.

If only she could understand

I hate her faith not her.



If she only knew.



I look forward to tomorrow ,

So I can speak to her again.