Story of XX

To be able to say
“I did it.”

To be able to tell a story--
All to please those who want to be,

I say: 
“To hell with you.” 

My words,
My thoughts,
They are mine.

In this city I feel that;
I embody that. 

For my heart bleeds...
Just not the same blood as yours.
No, my heart pulses a thick black liquor-- 

Intoxicating
my every thought,
every move.

That drunk man... 
You know the one everyone avoids?

Yeah him--
The one being step over in the street,
being judge?

His stench so hazardous 
it makes your stomach shrivel 
to the size of a cut umbilical cord.

Purges you of all appetite.
Yeah, that same man who sits in his own pool of piss and vomit?

He is me--
He is the free thought--
He gives no fucks.

What exactly do you think of him?

How you belittle him,
He could give two shits about you--

Because, his movements are free.

His heart is like mine--
It bleeds to intoxicate.

His story transcends your world --
My story excels your thoughts. 

Only when you can accept that will you understand.

To be able to say;
"I did it."

To be able to tell a story--
All to please those who want to be,

I say:
“To hell with you.”