FLOWERS
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?
