the freedom of not being crossed out by a stumbling hack artist, any longer,
as life is life,
and yet they write books of em now,
of a form that never improved,
and stories and facts they will never truly know.
So I have to keep my mouth shut
about a prat who in a way tried to
ruin my life, not so life,
but open, festive, creative art career.
it was stick figure lines, with no reason or
rhythm! it was hackney,
and they'd aggressively annoyingly, invasively
made my own perdition to free expression
something so obnoxiously aggrivating
in ruining it each time
that I had to just stop what I was already doing,
risking, and at most,
finding myself feeling peace and joy via expressing.
So ma honey was balogney,
but most of the public would never know,
or sympathize or care, I gather,
even if I proved or bookwrote it.
Very neat! the public again worships commodity
and not soul pursuit.
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