I almost didn’t post this poem because of the fears that follow. They creep in. Perhaps I am not beautiful, young nor deserving enough to think such thoughts, for any sexual attention, even from an unwanted over 50 year old source, I am grateful for. For to not be widely perceived as hilariously ugly is still a fairly new experience to me that I thank my lucky stars for.
But, sometimes in this whirlwindy city I am approached by older gentlemen. Sometimes they curse the heavens that I have crossed their path to be so young and unavailable, as if our potential for friendship is not enough, and my skills ignored. My worth is reduced to the physical nature of my age and sex. My existence in appearence has become a wretched twist of fate to them.
In rebuttal to this strange now gathering more commonplace occurence, this is a letter I wrote to Hollywood earlier today.
It roughly reads as follows, dyslexia still intact:
I am not your tragedy.
I was not born on this planet to arose you, my body was not formed to fill your cock with lustful anguish in the irony that God placed before you.
I am not your cruel joke.
I am not an angel.
I am not a devil.
I am my own imperfect human creature. I am love.
I have my own story.