As the Blade Grows Dull

An opportunity has opened itself up to me
But I haven’t the power to bewilder with the sounds of consonances and the arsenal of synonyms and similes

I haven’t the alliteration to make malevolence or malice meander or to minimize how much I abhor assholes with affluent bank accounts basking in the dimes and dollars that surely must define their quality of being.

The words lack a certain finesse.
My metaphors are small grains at the bottom of the sand box
Untouched by hands or urine
Unheard and left unattended

My personification cannot bring life to the sad cup of pencils on my desk staring at me, pleading with me for a caress.

I’ve never
Had the
Line breaks
To stay tuned
To the pitter patter
Of rain

On shaking hand and knee in front of sanctimonious espresso stand, begging for one more cup of coffee I don’t understand the addictions the literary greats went through.

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