Page Master

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,

laying dormant,

playing dead,

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.

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