[IamBenT]

Chained to the pen, shackled to the plastic keyboard,
Enslaved to the end, (words as waves over blasted seafloor),
Moon-draggled, these runes rattle my memory’s bones
(Moods battle with rude ***kles as enemies foam
With the same brine lining my hope’s closed coasts,
Patiently riding the storm throat’s morose chokes)
An ocean of emotion, where a cold boat floats,
Two patched holes, a cracked mast, old ropes stowed,
A tattered sail; battered, pale boom so weatherworn
And shattered, frail under noon suns, frost and tethers torn,
And more salt than kettlecorn—in this vessel, this ship,…my letters form,
My syllables meddle and twist, with muscles that wrestle with fish,
And sever thorned-ribs from flesh bespeckled in grit…
I am that veteran, sick and adrift, amidst the tempest
Hooks and lines are crooked rhymes I sink to grip the senses
Each metaphor a marlin, alarmed at the barbed thought,
Each simile a scarred fin, marking her spars fought ,
My heart fraught with flaws tugging the hard rod
Each piece fights to reach the beach and not meet the sharp rocks
Where the critics sit, a clique of crickets fit to feed frogs,
Each bar is a bright beam that streams far in deep fogs
I feel each knot and each clot in bloody, broken hands
Haul each conceit caught up to the ugly, hopeless land
Some will pull a profit, fueling future explorations…
Some go in the garbage, mewling useless protestations…
Few get sent to market as exhibits of my prowess…
Few go to my coffin- witnesses to my endowments
But now its… silence on the waves as I brave the elements
Fighting to shake shark rage that craves the supple flesh
Of precious meta-fish … one of which I bring here
For you to digest with fresh veggies and spring beer
You see, on that beach, in which I fish unceasing
Hungrily seeking fresh conceits each evening
I’m a slave to the pen and the page, and my wages
Will only be paid if what I relay is amazing,
Only THIS will emancipate me: You, reading this..
Which I’ve fished, and comprehending every phrase and statement..