Enter the cliché main character and yell your curtain calls. Enter and let that sweet cycle spin on the back of your bicycle tires braking hard and leaving its tracks permanent on the pavement.

Enter and let the show begin; assuming that the actors are well rehearsed in their li(n)es that is. God knows that the feet that fill my characters shoes aren’t big enough, they never have been.

How did it come to be that I am just an actor in my own play? Rehearsing lines and pointing out the flaws in my own character. Do I call them my own, or save blame for the bastard who wrote this damn thing?

Sometimes I feel I am just flesh and without blood, but ink rather coursing through. The thoughts of something better than I am slung between the blue and red margins in imperfect penmanship.

My words irrigated between the cracks of teeth, tongue and lip. I am nothing but recycled, regurgitated, redundant words that flow red from the ball point tip of my pen.

Exit the cliché main character and close curtains on this set. Exit and let the actors take their final bows. Wasn’t it moving? Weren’t my words moving? Wasn’t my character captivating?

Exit and let that sweet cycle spin on the back of your bicycle tires braking hard and leaving its tracks permanent on the pavement.