I could be a smack freak
And hate society.
I could hate God
And blame Dad.
And I might be in a Holocaust,
Hate Hitler.
I might not have a child
And hate school.
I could be a sad lover
And hate death.
I could be a neuro
And hate sweat.
No,
I hate my way.

I make you in to some
I can’t rise above the church.
I’m caught in a jungle,
Vines tangle my hands,
And it’s always so hot
And it’s hot in here.
I say it’s all right
But my guts scream out instead.
I have a strange gun in my head.

I’m invisible.
I’m TV.

A boy was tangled in his bike forever.
A girl was missing two fingers.
Martin Hughes
Was confused.
Michael Run
Had a gun
In his head
And so, I sat up late in the morning
And asked myself again:
“I wonder how they can kill children.”

And why do I want to die?

They can no longer move.
I can no longer be still.

I hate my way.