Skip to the part
where I said a thing
that's worth a damn.
Assume I'm withholding
more than half of what's required
for you to call my speech "the truth."
It appears than spill my guts I'd rather
chop a hacky poet in half
for making some overwrought and cliche´ ode
to a girl named Ophelia, who he never knew.
Some part of me calls out
to pull on your sleeve and say
Can you see?
A rage resides
beneath my skin,
it waits to take a shape
upon any irritant occasion.
I really should just keep on truckin'
but I'll be keen to read a sign
as a sign, and nothing more
and treat the rear view mirror only as a tool
to inform my current position on the road.
Birthdays are important, no matter what they say,
but offer first yourself these paper words
that you would otherwise push on others to tear or rip or sink into.
If you would strictly author this
but fail yourself and not digest
you'd be a bastard
instead of what you could be--
a page master.