A Slight Confession
Words are distances.
--A Confessional Poem--
To write sometimes feels like dying.
That statement will be taken the wrong way.
SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!
Hi I'm Butch.
I dreamt I came into a room and found pictures of my Father.
They were pictures of a stranger.
A young man I did not know.
If I picture him old in his study this becomes easy to say.
Butch isn't even my name.
I will say I need to get a whore to read this.
I will say this to become its audience.
I' speaking the reader here.
Right now I see a faceless crowd.