Autobiography

 Am I crazy?

Am I doing too much

for writing cheap poetry

since the tender eleven

and using touch

from sweet sixteen

to see a beauty

and to find a body?

Am I no less silly

yet no less of a judge

when I say I don't need pity

while every now and again

my own voice says I'm forever guilty

for things I dare believing in?

Am I too greedy?

Am I noisy,

dramatic and such

for making of anger an elegy

before I even get to count to ten,

caring nothing for the makeup smudge,

only the scratches of the pen

and how far the fingers can reach

to tell a good, broken story?

12/04/2021