Carte Blanche

My life, my friend, has always been

Topsy-turvy

Filled with experiences that my pen

Has clearly found just shy of worthy

Merely scribbles of fake prose

Disguised as poesy

Emotions seem to superimpose

Any true skills that I may have; you see,

There is nothing to this line or that before

Besides my own misguided need

To produce some great lore

Indeed I have forever felt that need, to seed

The world with my images, my truth

Yet my tools are rusty and falling apart

Unable to extract any talent, nothing so much as a baby tooth

My heart-art an illusion, giving madness Carte

Blanche