no one left to blame(story in ink comp)

just below the remnants
of my past pin-cushioned exterior
are marked the finest nine letters
I could borrow
to make music,
however bittersweet-
of my wasted existence.

m a m a
t r i e d

reading eagerely
almost in response
to the abscess scar
left on other side
of elbow, its far deeper
than the whimsy
I wish to display

The words themselves
were coined in song
in the culture of outlaw Americana
and as I am of the brood
destined for flame,
I will drink to my fate
without the passing of blame