The complicated tilt

I have a token against which I wrap my hand

Each time a verse eludes me

With marks up and down along the edge

My calculations should mete

Punishment coolly.

I have had a head in which nothing sticked

Save a line or two at times

More crosses than ticks afflict

Each measured rhyme

Spinning on a dime’s edge.

For me, mine

Is a cut

Curt line

Which never measures up to my head

I had a lick, a lash, a dash

Punctuating my rhythm

They burn all my flash fried circuits

Before the combination alters,

locking me out again.


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