Count me raw or medium rare but never well done
the meat of words I share still crawling from the stun
carry the smell of life as they bleed across my plate
cut with a pen as knife, very few, so as not to be overweight
Seared on flames of strife, smelling of smoke of the past
seasoned with the salt of life, to be eaten hot and fast
Canned phrases taste bland, lines overcooked loose their color
A poem\'s menu may be planned, too big a serving couldn\'t be duller