My face isn't carved in a mountain. I've never been struck by lightning.
I've never saved a crying baby from a burning house fire nor have I over come my misfortunes in life to acquire a name for myself. I consider myself a writer although all I've written is only pieces of torn limbs of my distraught existence.
Everything is a poem to me, it's my shorthand.
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Saturday, March 1, 2025
Calvary
What's right, What's wrong
What's changed or not the same
Why do I feel
I need to kill
Hang myself on a cross at the capitol
The beginning of the end For me But then you'll see
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