the flames

you do not deserve these words.

you are not worth my writings.

you are not worth the knuckle cracks and ever-moving arthritis,

that's just a few young years from tackling my right hand.

you are not worth my right hand,

or my left hand,

(where you might try to leave your mark someday).

you are not worth it.

you are not worth my trembling fingers.

i don't care if your money had a mouth,

and could swallow me whole.

insults have always been louder than compliments.

you are not worth skipping dinner for.

you are not worth a double take to my watch,

or getting work off early.

you paint my talents gold, but my days grey.

my fears red, my intellect brown,

you see me as a project,

but allow me to teach you a little something school couldn't.

books and God and hope and flowers,

all things good will give you power.

rumors and hate and money and pride,

these four things eat you alive.

so send my compliments to the chef,

and my condolences to your future,

where it burns crimson and gold.

I'll only ever see it from a distance.

Because you are not worth the flames.

You are not worth the flames.