A Poetic Endeavor to Change the way Things are.

A blank piece of parchment.
An abysmal thing.
The nothingness of the white stretches out.
Absent of any soul.
All it will take is a small effort on my part.
A painless stroke of the hand,
To give it life,
To give it meaning.
Even a small streak of color will make it what it is now not.
But I don’t.
I'm to consumed with myself to see.
To do anything that requires effort,
Even if it contributing to the beautiful.
A glass box.
A paper castle.
These things have no meaning to me.
Being on the delicate edge of the scale.
While I am on the coarse.
I'm no Bryant.
No Robert Frost.
Nor a Michelangelo,
Or Rembrandt.
I'm just a snake oil salesmen.
A faux poet.
Writing pseudo words of the obscene.
Selling my lies and cheap fakes to all who buy them.
I'm tired of being like everyone else.
But I'm to scared to move out from the listless ocean
Of the poseurs.
So I remain…
A fake, a cheap imitation of greater men.