Enough

I wrote this in the space of a few minutes without stopping. I guess that's the kind of spontaneous Kerouac went on about and I've never been any good at, but I've decided to stick to his rules and not go back to revise anything. Right, no rewrite, here it is:

Enough,
I think I seem I am I think
I am enough,
I think,
I am not pretty.
as beautiful as water
(from a tap) but enough
of a pile of human teeth,
not grown-up but grown
from troubled daughter,
(far enough from little brat)
so please, no need
for looking underneath
the words I say-
that's quite enough.
I think I seem I am I think
I am okay.

Summer daybreaks

I don't like this time of year-
summer's breath down my neck,
chased up sleepless from shorter nights, tired and dry,
hands that were shaken by day, the one before
still aching and sore- day breaks to brittle hours,
sunlight strips, sandpaper scratches,
at the corner of an eye
and all the clutter catches
at the throat's back, dust kicked up
from summer's track- day breaks the thirsty flowers.