It's been heard I'm adequate with words
If only they knew,
they knew less
than the full
story

It's been said I'm blithe, articulate
I'm pleasant at that
That I have
and want not's
compensatory
transitory

In the end, I'm worth forlorn words, no more
In the end, my has-been charm goes dead weight
In the end, I'm your additive to the dull days
In the end, my gains come from a snake's tongue

In the end,
I'm nothing
but words
for reading

black lies
on the white light
of a flat screen

In the end,
I've nothing
but words
beneath me
beneath me

Beneath me twists and turns the caverns where my heart grows.
I call it art to your face, when I'm a broker by trade.
You won't know that you trade, you won't see that I sell myself.
You won't feel the hidden strings on your cervical
spine until you've given your food, four walls, window and door,
given your love to a dead duck scanning for escape.