Should you read this, then I may be proven right. You care about me more than I do, for I am ignored by me, mostly, and usually overlooked when attention is served due to the bright glow of the universe and dim flicker of me. My past is of irrelevance and as I am to you is but what my poems speak, but sometimes I feel it's not me that speaks.
Puckered shut and concave. Collector of dust and bearer of hair. Wound from my mother, or hurt myself trying to break free?
Clemens, Ginsberg, Sagan, Vonnegut, Shakespeare, Hoffman, Burroughs, Thompson, Huxley to name a few I've enjoyed