A crowbar in my hand

In metro hum, where steel and stone preside, A bard steps forth, though not with lyre in hand, But crowbar wielded, forceful, strong, and prying wide, Parting the jaws of my rigid thoughts was unplanned What you see is what you get, no veil to lift, No masks to don, no illusions to uphold, The truth, raw and unfiltered, cuts like a rift, And what you get is what you saw, a tale not often told A poet in half, not here to wield words that start a plague But they are weapons, and the heart is the target, My lines are a dance of light, darkness, and vague Reflecting the chaos where my soul is traded at market These transactions are enough to make Prozac laugh, Though not bound to disaster’s path, I’ve had my half, In the depths of sorrow, there’s a twisted jest, And in the wake of suffering, I’ve found my best I’ve got a throwback craft, that’s sharpened by time, And though the world may rush my words; I mean to linger, My smile could kill the suns shine, with just a single finger, For in its cracks and creases, hope and despair draw a line On it I stand, this bard that modern-day has not undone, With a crowbar in hand and verses in my heart, In breaking wide open, the pain of healing has begun, And in the fragments left; lies the best of my art