Passing the Torch
Kris CollinsThis pen I hold tight writes light leading my path- cause’s chemical reactions when the ink bleeds on the pad. Invisible fumes come forth, contorting my brain. Doctors study my mind- they pass me off as insane. They still say the same about Edgar Allen; Always bringing up the negative to cover up talent. Locked away, the fat fuzz with a buzz cut holds my key-He swallowed it whole as he stood right next to me. The bars are thick and they keep us apart. They think they know what’s best and play their tune on their harp. I hate the sound it omits- if I could get my grimy mitts on the implement I would destroy it and smile as big as smiles get. They tried to brainwash me-It was impossible so they tried to brain starch me. Yes, I said it and I await full credit. So I say it louder, escape the devil’s cage and turn swine into powder. Sawdust particles- I was born under the ship amongst the barnacles. Raised by wolves and a mermaid. The soul of a slave and the soul of a chief made a baby and blessed it with the leaf. That’s one of my ancestors and even though I look white, I’m just me. Still fighting the good fight; it’s got me on the ropes but I keep it in scope. Religious zealots in my city built a large moat, containing alligators in the human form of haters. They wanna hang me from the skyscraper downtown. In front of my few followers and silence my sound. All in the name of what they call religion, tax free big budget, politicians, hired lawyers and henchmen-so they can do their dirty work for a small pension. My mission is to write it in stone, etched with rock and signed at the bottom with a pen made of bone; ink made from blood, mixed with black mud and the slime from slugs. Once the earthquake cracks the earth I’ll be close, until then I’m settling for internet posts. No need to boast and brag; I tell it how it is to young girls and little lads. Just like yourself, here’s the torch to you, I pass.