Self-Made Poem by Mark Richardson

Balance in your self-made shrine; bore me with your stories
We strip away your every layer, to yawn the law it is

Gather round my young pups, address my every whim
Fan my flames of fancy, and all shall bow to him

Story after story, you blur your fancy life
Every fable flawed, tales of woe and lies so rife

Your back teeth voice this venom, plant a seed within
Hang upon your every word, a crowd feed off your sin

Admired by the masses, an army of salutes
Gorge upon your forgery, an act of disrepute

Impressing all the clan, hold a power in this voice
Standing proud all will hear, the weapon of your choice

A godlike reputation, foot loose and fancy free
The spoken word constructs the man, all just want to be

So stand upright you legend, let me dust those shoes
The lie you shine will beat the truth, a fight you cannot lose