I am I was I’m not I’ll never be
Me. Who is he? Always searching for she,
Staying quiet when he should be yelling,
Writing down things and never quite saying
Or thinking or feeling or or reeling
From grave injustices that have happened.
Years have gone by and it never happened.
70 Syllables and a spilt beer;
One good line plus a lot of fucking fear.
The rewriting is not doing a thing,
If only I was born a god damned king.
Nay, an athlete, a tycoon of all finer
things: or maybe stand out front and just sing…
Anything would be better than this pen.
Holding this pen. Scolding this pen. Fuck. Fuck.
Goose. I’m loose. But it’s not working right now.
If only I could turn it on somehow.
I can. I don’t. I won’t. I really will.