If I Can Write A Book That

I Look At My Homely Sketch. It Doesn't Need Anything. Even Through The River In My Eyes I Can See That. It Isn't Perfect And That Makes It Just Right.

I Decapitated Dandelions All Morning, Leaving Carnage And Death Strewn Into My Path.

I Cry To Let Everything Out

I Stuff My Mouth With Old Fabric And Scream Until There Are No Sounds Left Under My Skin.

They're On Their Way To The Foreign-language Wing. That's No Surprise. The Foreign Kids Are Always Here, Like They Need To Breathe Air Scented With Their Native Language A Couple Times A Day Or They'll Choke To Death On Too Much American.