My pen just won’t translate clichés
For one reason or another.
It would rather ****** the page
Than aid in the smothering
Of youth, bridge the gap of old age,
Take mass graves and cover them, and
Would rather fade into disgrace
Than find a remedy to the blubbering.

Because this pen was not designed
To draw rainbows from hurricanes,
It would rather commit every crime
Than sketch new hues to the stain glass
Windows of anarchy and rhyme;
Rather commit arson daily

Than dig up the past for all to see
But none to find.
And one day soon you will race past the
Apple Store with its blaring screens,
The calamity of another mise en scéne
With nothing new to say but alas,
You can always find my pen in dreams
That make burning sense
Before they come to pass.