When I was young,

I knew a man who liked to blame me.

He was a small man with small ideas.

he was well-liked by the community,

but behind closed doors he was evil.

His psyche was a two-way door,

swinging as quickly as his temper.

One day he threatened to strike me,

but I was no longer the boy he knew.

I replied that he now must worry,

for I have a pen filled with memories of his lies,

of his hatefulness, of his ignorance,

and of his wrong-doing.

Upon realizing the words I uttered

he retracted like the withered old man he was.

He saw his life had passed.

He lived. Only lived. Nothing more.

And so now I know another man

His pen may flow with his memories,

in his own deceitful game of platitudes.

He threatens me with "the truth".

Yet in my m ind I am reminded of my mighty pen

that flows with knowledge of truth.

My ink is pure. His is tainted with vengeance and fear.

His pen will no doubt be a struggled battle against me

but upon the passing day, my pen strikes the paper

with a truth so pure, so simple, and plain,

even the crazed one himself

might happen upon his own disgust.

He need not look deep into those words.

They will be transcribed quite plainly.