it might sound pretentious.
I don’t care.
life has made me what I am,
chiseling and drilling,
until there is nothing left to do
but concede.
it’s more than art,
this pilgrimage into verse.
it’s plucking weeds and picking up stones.
it’s leading the stud pony to the mare in heat.
it’s a broken spirit that’s been repaired and repaired.
it’s hours upon hours of slavery.
it’s love.
I make no claims to being the best at anything.
call me a hack if you want.
I don’t care.
Bob Dylan can have the title
and I’ll keep whittling away
until my concession is granted.
