this morning I am going to jump into my poem—dive into my poem, I am going to surround the air with my poem, a cloudy substance my poem, I will be suffocated by the breaths taken when in my poem, others will not suffer the same consequences for it is — my poem, yes, my poem the one I constructed, laid the foundation, of this poem, oh yes, my poem—the one I painted, countless hours tracing the lines of the skeletal existence of; my poem, yes the same poem that makes skin crawl, the same poem that  inspires, love, fear, sorrow, wonder, the same poem that I have been keeping stored away in this led box inside my hallow chest, the one that flipped on—new lights ones never before seen, in my poem there is nothing much more than literal build up with emotional out pouring; not in my poem is there mention of kings and queens and what boy will love me most, no in my poem—cynicism takes the lead in my poem I attack the ones I disagree with, not attack parse; I storm the opposition in my poem—the “right”, in my poem has no leg to stand on, in my poem I do not ponder existence of god and such other things, oh no in my poem I do as I please,  in my poem I am the puppet master, the driver, the captain, the president; oh yes, in my poem, is where I belong.