So many planes upon my skin
Reside from efforts to punish myself
For all the fucked up theories I had
About my existence.
So many lesions
Left from lukewarm liquids
Within baggage
Packed underneath a chest of bones.
I have not forgotten the birth of my creativity,
The emergence of a force
That was harnessed from within a little green notebook
That I cannot find to this day.
Often times,
I miss the baby pictures
I used to keep
Underneath my mattress,
Little ditties about how I hated everything.
Myself.
The world.
The assholes in my life.
Rudy Giuliani.
But then I look back
Thinking about all those times
I isolated myself from my peers
And started writing,
Applying forced rhymes and fixed lines.
Those subte reminders
That even though I was attempting
To emancipate myself from my pain,
I was still succumbing to mental slavery.
It took a while
To hone the tone of the bone structure of my art,
To put some muscle into my pen,
But I must not forget the roots.
Must not forget
That the scribbles in my little green notebook
Served a purpose in my youth,
And I know those memories will be there
Once I can find the fucking thing.

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