A Poem
      He writes and rewrites,spells his name backwardsso people pay attention to it.But He doesn’t write of flowers anymore.He writes of concrete and lost soldiers,boys who got jumped to conclusionsof colors, caskets, and cells.No one tells their story anymore,although it's all we all know.He writes laughter into his realitybecause everything is too quiet,everyone is silent,always talking about nothing.They're moving too fast to hear.No one asked. He never told.No one asked. He only wroteletters backwardshoping he'd find his way forward.He sketches his world in ink.Lets the pen define the lines.Takes sheets of paperwraps them aroundhis neck like capes.Stands behind mics,lets the stage make him fly.He's trying save the worldshe created as a child.Worlds that hold his dreams,where his futureis constructed on lined paper.And he rides trails of inkto lands he's never seen before,lands with more flowersthan he's ever dreamed before.These places seem strange and foreign,but still he grips his pento write them home.He tells the fields about pavementand how many stagesit takes to beat it.Speaks of every secretassembly of pain.Carries all the storiestold in whispersand gives them flesh.Every repetition reminds himhe is the boywho writes his own name.He is the boywho defines himself.