With blood blued on my sweater
And infection taking root in my burn,
I deny my own desire.
Self-worth is overstated, overrated.
Rhyme is a poor man’s crime,
And I want you.
Arrogant in thought.
I didn’t expect this to be easy,
And you are worth working for,
Worth creating my own world and path.
Still, they ask what my story will be.
They wonder what I’ll achieve
Through an illuminated life.
A better question is,
What is the sound of shit hitting the fan?
I deserve nothing,
Have earned little,
And the future remains hidden.
Dcid Corvid 