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Light Weight
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IP:
Plagiarized.
Envision this: perforated kids in a darkened basement…
Bodies stacked like Adam’s rib rack, missing containment
Insane met grace, yes. The killer’s art is his asylum
Locks away his pieces with other’s who’ve signed them.
Count on the fingers and walk away on the toes…
His heart bleeds with remorse, but doesn’t stain on his clothes.
Uses his pen as a blade, stabbing the page’s surface
It crumples into a heap, falls, and is reverted
Stop. This is where he edits his life….
Uncrumples the paper and turns the day into night.
He illuminates the sky, one star at a time
Piece after piece are stolen through crime.
Line after line, he expresses his anguish ever so cautiously
Follow me through his eyes as he reads his own copies
In newspapers and books, his works in that were never submitted
Trials the imposters, who were never acquitted…
What he’s awarded doesn’t exactly amount to crock
Because if you mind your money…
You’re worth more than pennies for thoughts.
__________________
Was he robbed of the ashphalt that cushioned his face?
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