[POEM] the writer

I am no lean machine

of muses and daydreams,

for what a waste of effort

would cynics deem

my silent screams

if I so chose to fight the power?

To throw forth my towering

ego to the skies

and expect in that hour

to witness my enemies cower,

both spirit and man to fall

before my words in awe.

Pffft! Hardly the case.

Perhaps some laughter to call

a reaction of it all.

What a pitying shame

that I left myself, came

to this point of dissent.

Who am I to blame

anyone but my own lame



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