In me own inevitable way

An affliction,
contra,
band.
Poor diction.
Life lines on the wrong side of my hand.
Fingered twats,
seek retribution for getting banged up.
I tell it like it ain't,
In me own inevitable way.
Warrior!
what?
You think I'm not?
Cos I swear,
worry about the state of me hair,
when a riots raging at Trafalgar Square.
I've fought more battles than you've had.

For myself and others,
Sistren and Brethren,
With flesh,
heart,
tears and imaginary blood,
In me own inevitable way.

Love,
now we're talking.
How do I do this?
You fucking guessed it, 
in me own inevitable way.
With my heart on my sleeve,
expressions in word form if you please,
or if you don't.
Deep inside your heart and hole,
reaching out with lips to kiss every part of your soul.
That's the way I,
fall,
on this sword,
over and over again.
Could this be my last,
or will I pass go,
without collecting another kindred spirit.

Writer,
or wrong.
Are these strangled words some sort of absurd effort,
to be remembered by people,
who don't read poetry,
or prose anyway.
Or is it a burning need to shoot my seed of creativity into gravity.
Standing by passively,
to see if it grows,
dies,
crashes,
or flies.
And after all that the only thing I know is I don't know,
if I'd do it all again,

in me own inevitable way.