He was done, for all intents and usurps
These rigidly inept fingers about to place their trembling selves right back where they might just belong – inside of ruffled and utterly grass-stained pockets
For this is where he sat every other fledgling morning
Supposedly so keeping the dream oh so infuriatingly pristine
At least beneath these seemingly wingless words right about now
For the time being – all etching famine, no God-forsaken punctuated feast
One sentence, one eye, just one next heady interjection
And I suggest you cannot, will not, ever get to give up
‘Til finally enlightening, then so very much as turning the whole damn spoken word process upon its age-old and nauseatingly worn-out-time-again head
Pile-driven into all too necessary non-verbal submission
These pretenders are so very alarmingly insane – all too willing to let themselves fall fair affably between these dire cracks in the pavement
Mental asylum candidate/wordsmith extraordinaire/masterful innovator/petty electric-chair instigator – watch how you draw the line, why won’t you all!!?
He smiles soon as he knows the real score
Some people are born to speak, others to tweak the life right from it
Those who can’t truly do teach – this when he finally gets to lend a wink to all of the hard-up editors on out there

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