The Flourish, Or, The Name I Invented

Bank forms. A stack of them.

Each line, a small, soft gem

of bureaucracy, waiting there.

And my pen, with a flair

I didn't ask for, or plan,

began its tiny little span

of performance. The 'y'

in my name, it tried to fly

with a flourish, a small, dark loop.

Who was I doing it for? A swoop

of ink, a secret, small show.

Like someone was watching, you know.

And the paper, cheap, thin and bland,

it caught the ink, a heavy hand

where it wasn't needed. This fake

confidence. For goodness sake,

it's just my name. But I make it

something more, a small mistake

of ego, a tiny, strange art.

It rips a little, the thin heart

of the paper. My own name,

a stranger, a small, bright flame.