This Play, You Would Direct It? ..... Poem by James McLain

You toss me a mind, used, unused, cleanedbyanangels@tear.com
my plank on your stage pops up, i step aside, you follow
it is to, gets excited, but you get more excited, why?
I am innocent truly, yes, i am starting to think you already
know this to, because it is, such a small 'id'' to aim at this, it's
director, changes my part so often, you just stare, in wonder
to think, those words dont match, it's lips, yours, the body does.
I go to sleep, not long, i come back, my little humble pile of
pink litter, is being seen to be picked through, by the many, for
a cause, inkinged by me. Your smiles, make me blush, still...
You just keep saying, as you drag me poor wits, through out
one parts per dozen, speed up this action, while smoke starts
a seepage, thin or thick, are the days...Shakespeare's wandered too..
Stop warring about all the parts, we will fix the stage, the lights
will show your full chest, even without..a Google or two..
Terr as grasp, is a firearm, with that pink marble burst on the
staged grounds, be sure..next please..up here...roll her..in Filip's,
on this recipe, sloughed off in bread crumbs so dear..It's only to show, you a view..