The writer bled

Where he learned to bleed

With the poems who knew they would always be alone

On the bard tree


You see…

He knew he had to write anyway.


Tortured by the elite

Crawling at their collective feet

He nurtured the wound

Performing the proper cuts

His verbs so neat…nouns so complete


Now the charity of those who know

Sift him regularly

Mostly tossing him as the dregs of mankind

And other’s… verses win serendipity


Who could question their fame?

When your words are lying in shame

Never fear…for in the future

The next train of thought

Will let you ride


In the boxcar of the ones left behind.