There was a moment
where I rode
coat tails of
the musings written
by authors more
talented.

I pounded their style
into my paper
with rich swings of
my ball peen
until its forged style
rang like bells at
readings.

Then I was called
to the mat,
having accepted experience
that was not mine.

The anger came

and I smashed my paper
with hammed fists until
the words cried from
the pulp.

It was beautiful
It made me a dangerous
man.

Though I rarely left
the barstool to empty
my

badness?

Then I lost the anger.

I am living in a white box
with a lawn shared by
my neighbors.

There is a swing set
out back that creaks
in gentle breezes.

I am not prepared for
this. Words driven
only by my hand,
with little passion
and rerun adages
more disgusting as
they are
tapped
instead of inked
into
the paper of one who
really has

very little to say.