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Feb 2013
I was an early teen with a black and white TV, staying up way too late to see magnum p.i., while smoking ****** slime re-fries, for a high so intense, i even shat my pants, ****** myself, or collapsed my fat *** on the couch.

I was alive while not

My mother worked typical nine to fives, and even nights, and with no father in sight for guidance, a kid can slide, into redefining the lining of respect, one lining, or even lying instead, it was better than dying inside, and i tried, oh i tried to go outside, inside a box.

I tried to deny my crimes, my thievery, my sublime feelings of neglect, but maybe i was less neglected, and more centered at the core of the universe, where snake eyes protected Bianca from Cobra commanders clutch, but Bianca, was into it, and wasn't like us, ***** knew it, and set us all up.

Dumb *****

Rubber bands
Screws and guns
All piled up
And that's all that's left
Or ever was?

Ninja nothing

My imagination was corrupted
I wanted something
But knew i couldn't have it
Couldn't put my finger on it
But knew the dangle of a carrot
And i was on it

Moth to light

That's how the infection spread, dissecting eloquence, and injecting prisms into the imprisonment of reflectous rages in the intersecting of the yellow projections on my television, as i would just lay there on my bed, and soak it all in, hoping for something better, or perhaps just something different.

I had already written by that time, a thousand lines to the screams, behind the screen, as the programing repeats, and repeats in mastered recipes under a canopy of grief, and humility, holding the people humbly to their seats.

The records not scratched
The needle
Is seated
Where it intends
To be

I cheered for tanks
I cheered for bombs
Cheered for any ******* thing
That sounded the alarms

Suits, with ties, next to the soccer moms in line, at the grocery store, complaining about meat cuts, to a brain dead acne laden ****, making 6 bucks an hour, the dream had died before me, and begun to sour, but not one would see what they were doing in the scheme of things, and only seen what they wanted to, and i wasn't about to wear anyone's shoes, but mine.

That's when it whooshed over me, in the spark that grew my heart to be bigger than the rest, and i stepped outside, poking sticks in hives, and even lost a few fights, but saw through my own eyes with nobody at my side, though alone and wandering, i was still alright, and stronger than those family types, who would hide from life, in wealthy slights of hand, i still demanded nothing.

I wont beg for a leg at the masters feet, after i have broken my leash and ceased to be anything close to a functional member of society.

I was 13 and just starting.
Michael W Noland
Written by
Michael W Noland  Seattle
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