here, world.
have these words.

it’s all for the better
i’m all for the worse

they're all bound
to come around
and rebound
some days from now
so what’s the worst?

don me a a player
of words
and an alphabet
about which
i could not care less
though in them is my worth
they’re the sole characters  
on which my transient existence depends…
how symbolic.

don't allow it
they’ll run out of artists and authors
when they realize they need to pay attention
to working on pay without paying on their end
so they pay homage and paint my pale face
and hang it up as they say grace and pass the pail, there's
a pencil in my left although i’m not right at times
hand it
although i've only used pen those times
grant it
to galleries long after i am gone
and my silent voice of self-defense that is read when i see red
is no more
and granted,
my flesh is dense, entrenched and soiled in worms and soil
and the sole consistency in my after and my life is my nonexistent soul

don’t let the gluttony go unnoticed.

for if there is a phenomena i despise more so
than broadway shows which broadly showcase
plain, feigned mythical “facts” amidst quotes
it’s the fact that
myth
has no purpose
but to extort
the 27 things i’ve ever known:
my mean letters and my enemy
long after i
am no more.