I don’t know who this is
My thoughts or his
If they’re mine, then why do they seem a million miles away
If they’re his
Then why am I having them
Nothing is what it seems here
In my mind
Blow it away
That is what I will do
That is what he will do
It’s okay
Boda will save us
He will
He will save us
After it is all over
After we eat death
After we dance
No art is possible
I got this from Vonnegut
No art is possible without a dance
We got this from his crusade
As a child
Go on war is fun
War is where we all die
No art is possible without a dance with death
War is where everyone goes when they are lost
War fills us
Fill us with your confusion
Fill us and dance then go out into the world and give them your art
Make them dance for it
In his head read what follows
In my head read what follows
In our head read what follows
It is all the same
Where am I
Have I done it yet
Has he
No
There it is
Sweet Boda
There it is
Take up your double barrel and release yourself from this

this was not written to be a poem though nothing I write never really is. I wrote this when I was in the hospital--My doctors said that I am " a clinically depressed Bi-Polar alcoholic with suicidal tendencies and you (meaning me) have a bad way of coping with anger and stress issues." Really? their words not mine. I deal with them by drinking, which I really enjoy--my words, not theirs.
This is actually the very last piece for the Wrong Virtu series--which I am currently still trying to complete. so yada yada yada
For all it's worth...