I am entitled

I am entitled to titles, recitals,
and cycles of glory.
My personal story is no allegory;
it’s gory, it’s rusty.
No one can trust me,
outlast me, disgust me.
I’m never prepared, despaired,
or scared. I must be repaired,
I long reinvention, another convention,
a different fiction, prescription
or function. I am at the junction
Of several stories. My worries are endless
And sleepless. My sadness is needless, unpleasant,
unreal. So what is my deal? My purpose? My answer?
I am a dispenser of wicked ideals;
my fatal ideas are deadly but vital.
I guess I’m entitled to titles, recitals,
and cycles of glory.
My personal story is no allegory.

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