Constantly, incessantly
I spin yarns
& simple stories,
complex allegories.

I'm infected
with the hex of gab
& it hurts to be
not so fabulous,
what some
might call me,
a human-reject.

I am not a poet,
just addicted,
afflicted with the
disease of
word-construction blues
& hues of red,
the spilling of
real blood
in twisted-verse.