The Provocateur

Am I too good
Or am I really shit?
Why don't my efforts
make the hit?
 
I craft out words
in bloody ink
and tattoo them on my arm
to make people think
 
I play with meaning,
shape and sound
I recycle images
lost and found
 
I dare to turn things
upside down
to create novelty

and juxtapose it with
the familiar
to relate to somebody
 
But there are no takers
I poet it alone
And remain a recluse
in my solo prophet home
 
What does it matter?
What do I care?
It's probably unhealthy
to air my underwear
 
I must be really sick
as I overexpose
my sensitivities
that are on the nose
 
Yeah sure I stink
and that is the point
I am human too
So let's smoke a joint

*DISCLAIMER: I don't actually do any drugs so this ending was poetic license FYI