pioneering and experimenting in search for myself, I stopped looking after the sixteenth year in life as I planted a seed in a place where nothing grows and blossomed like a beautifully, unblemished nuisance of the dandelion.
but, if the world was the gardner of life, it sprayed **** killer on my soul and continously pulled me from the roots in hopes that I would one day sprout into an orchid or a water lily or a daffodil, trying desperately to mold me the way they wanted to but I'm no tulip you could easily pluck from the moistened soil, just the aforementioned **** deep-rooted into the hard concrete.
each year after that, I fed myself plant food on the compost heap of jobs, women, *****, madness, fathering and mothering two children, cooking cheap meals and avoiding religion and fashion and politics and responsibilites and marriage just so I concentrate on surviving while feeling brutalized and institutionalized by the roses of society, until the day came when I stepped in the bear trap of literacy and was confined with a typewriter.
and now I'm married with responsibilities, fathering my two children and the meals have gotten dainty, the woman are gone, the ***** has prospered, the madness is here to stay and I'm still impassive towards religion, fashion and politics.
so why am I clocking in and out of life for 23 hours a day for everyone else so I sparingly enjoy one hour of the day to be myself and write?
because the world creates chaos and I take their chaos and create poetry and just when you thought they've completely diminished my soul, a little piece of ash still glimmers in the thick gray haze where the victory garden dances with burning flowers.
no one in this world, not even my sworn enemy, should have to fight for or work for just to be themselves.
and if the end of each day isn't a 5 or 6 hundred page novel to write about and bookmarked with a crushed daisy then what the **** are we even doing here?