I carry this thing, it sits on my shoulder
Some call it a chip; I call it my boulder
It gnaws at my insides, it makes for low blows
When I’m swirling around in its treacherous throes

I am sometimes deceitful when I feel its weight
Dignity and grace I cavalierly leave at the gate
If it tells me I’m worth nothing, that I’m wretchedly small
I’ll lash out blindly at one and all

I grew up believing this weight that I hold
Of inflated egos and machismo bold
Is an age old legacy that’s been bestowed
From father to son and from son down below.

With time, it has morphed into an ugly avatar
Sometimes the pricks of conscience are stark
But driven by habit and custom and time
I let my massive chip drag me into the grime

I’m weaving this rhyme when I’m feeling lucid
And can see the chip: festering and putrid
Most times though it pokes me with its manly muscle:
I could murder that person who honked at my Honda Vezel!

And so I go blundering and blustering through life
Ego in one hand; in the other an invisible knife 
When my shoulder can’t bear the weight of the chip
I unburden, I plot and I rage. I’m insidious.