The poet,he seemed more a runaway priest,
Was grounded by black lace.

A bigtime kiss blaze with a novelist.

Strutting her literary living,she was
The fireball blitz,extreme.

The scorekeeper some term Karma,
And others call Chance,
In solvent stock fashion,
Dealt deadly destiny.

The eye-opener fatal love
Crrawled into a crying song.

The  guitar,a jailhouse flower,
Celebrated the greatt flair for folly
For writers,where the grass is greener.

You will meet
people
in life who
love to keep score.
"I've done this for you, so
you should do that for me."
They keep a mental ledger.
They're pathetic.
Nothing is ever done out of
the goodness of their heart.
Their mind clicks with
records and accounts.
They are slaves to the
almighty penny.
Nothing you do will
ever
count anyway.
You're always in
the red.

This is the only thing
that makes anything
better anymore

whispered the
Scorekeeper to her
localized experience

machine running upon
everything possible;
Acknowledge the
choice desired,
Be sagacious
in choosing

for it's through the cracked ones
that the light shines.