Its my soul.

I wont be held, restrained, you wont stop my refrain. You may interrupt it, punctuate it, but the melody, the verses, the rhythm, that comes from within, that keep me soaring, like a bird, like an eagle, are what sustain me.

So, I said it already, I am possessed, positively, like I want to be, like you could be, if you were free, with the spirit of my ancestors, that make me look at you, in your dark eyes, fearlessly.

So, go on, try to hurt me, sure you can physically, then again you don't know me, like I know you, with your minuscule mind, that keeps you from seeing me in you and you in me, the man across the street that eats from the garbage can, in you and me, the little girl with the little baby boy, in you and in me.

So, go ahead punctuate, be bad, be mean, I will forgive you, but I will write about you, and a hundred years from now, you will be remembered as the pitiful soul that you are that failed to kill a spirit, a bird, an eagle that soars too high for your liking.

Sometimes, I think I am crazy for having nothing but yet plenty, because I am a dreamer and maybe thats where it starts, with a dream, with a passion, with a maddening love for something that is exceedingly intoxicating, that is more pleasurable than the sweetness of a vagina.

So my life could be chaotic, but times like these, when I write, I am free, I feel I can touch the sky, although I cant, I want to share my soul, my heart, so I feel uninhibited,
then the morning will come, the train will scream, the sky will be consumed with smoke, and my life will take on a monotony.

Then the night will fall, darkness will envelope us and in the quiet, the solitude, I will find myself.

So, now I need balance, so I can do what I love, if not I will prefer to be alone, in a room somewhere, dimly lit, listening to the pant of a dog, peering out the window, now and then, to the black wet street that glistens. I don't smoke. I quit, you thought you knew me, otherwise, I would open the door, to the soothing cold, take a pull and contemplate my next work.
I would look at the grass, orange, from the weight of the snow, but still alive, deep rooted, and about to enrich itself with a luscious greenness.
Maybe, I am like the grass... maybe you can be like that grass...ah..perennial.