You don't have a cousin Patty, stupid!

The morning is dark and [SULTRY]. It washes over me like a thick blanket of hate. My nephew is supposed to be born in a few hours and that just seems like a horrible waste of a perfect day. They say that I may be getting out of here soon. [SHHHHHHTUPID]. I will be going either the way of Jack or Big Chief... I don't know yet. These walls receeding off me and I miss their company. Wallowing in my puddle of despair and drowning in a pool of thought. [OOH COWS]. I am in my fith year trapped inside my head, I have spent more years in here than I did before.
[ONE LITTLE MURDER AND ALL OF A SUDDEN YOU'RE JACK THE RIPPER..]
All I have is my head and it's the only company I keep. I dream of a life in books... Where my head and I can be alone, and live in harmony... Outside these walls Outside my skull...

To Thine Ownself Be True

Some treat poetry and words like chemistry. One formula for a sentence and one for a phrase.
They write to earn and yet they don't need. The need to express, to read one's own thoughts moments to years after thinking them, is the beauty of writing. To expose the self on paper as a locket holds memories. True writing may happen on paper, or a piece of cardboard, a napkin, a book, a wall or a pair of jeans.

"I published a Book of Poetry! Look At Me! Ain't I Romantic?"

I lust for words; spend hours searching for ones to convey myself. I write to write my feelings, and I truly don't care if no one ever reads them. I hope no one ever reads my thoughts before I have thought them again. My life as I prefer is the B-side. I enjoy going backwards and being forgotten, because when someone does find me, I'll be that much more appreciated.

I AM SUPER FUDGE!!