my skeleton
feelsalmost
mercurial
musclesshifting
beneath this
paperthinflesh
rigidrazors
ravagingrelentlessly
as i shed
thetumorsofwho
i longed to be:

clumsycharlatanscatcalling
forchangeinanefforttoshift
theattentionfromtheirown
constant calamitous crimes
of ego.

some mornings
i fucking hate it here
when i see the rampant
narcissistic decay
infecting art
caricatures clamoring
for the spotlight
playing hidden politics
in lieu of actual talent

plastic sincerity
forward facing smiles
while forcing inept
attemptsatmachievellian
power grabs
to a decreasing base.

in defense
of these indefensible
stains
the lies they spew
are better than
the decade old books
they cling to
for relevancy

little about them
has aged well

but what do i know
a so-called poet
in a world of
ego over talent