I am but a nail below the hammer of obiter dictum.
Drunk with the promise of the simple,
Once again tempted to deny my id.
These words are not mine, though they rally through my heart,
Bridled only by my cowardice and my petition to walk a worn path.
What am I if I choose not to partition the things I’ve been granted in order to feed my own success?
I am not myself, and this to grave to ignore.