Autobiographical prose and rhyme
The pages were blank
Until Father Time became linear.
Listen and you may hear...
The rants of a misdiagnosed minor.
Naming not legal on papers and documents
Try and commit a crime...
They won't stop it.
Just dropp the print for the record.
It's all occurred from creation to rapture
But the need to capture it all in a vocabulary achieved via American education
Is quite the limiting factor
Along with experience...
Which I hear from gods I lack
But back with a vengeance...
The kudzu of my literary garden
Starting to feel the psychedelic sensations
And from cracked fingers, metal vibrations
As it unravels itself before my eyes
A brain cell dies.
Something grows weary
Words shift to solemn
No one can hear me
Unless I call him...
We went through it together, I believe
But my soul is held together with glitter glue
While his hearet continues to beat
'Cry Tough, ' I'd tell myself if I could
But being the baby-killing, pot-smoking, liberal faggot I'm stereotyped to be-
I don't own a single goddamn mirror
So all I see...
Is your picture in front of me
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.