Look

Look. You like wanted me to write a poem.
Tell you the tale of leaving home.
With a shriveled soul,
Battered and tattered and torn.
So I tried. No Fuck that, I did.
Spent more than most of my life
trying to decipher the cries.
The anguish I spied, recognized
from my own crippled definition of what’s right.
And these thoughts were mine as a kid.
But I grew some, put away the weaker past
that was mine, well, at least I hid.
Diving into the abyss, I trashed all the
names on the list on which my poems were printed.
Create me anew, my art grew,
slowly taking the form of my heart.
Romantic fool, I tried to give it to you,
 and you, and you.
But my poems were just smears, the blood dragged on by tears, and you thought me weird,
in the words that appeared.
And my ink was thicker and dark.
Look, I like wrote you a book,
but I can't stop to look at the trail of the
words behind me.
So when it’s my time to go, you’ll know these rhymes are my soul.
And you’ll always know where to find me.