It's a poem about the transformational power of speaking out in the face of thousands of 'fans' booing you.
Only a smattering of folks across the country understand the language, and I’m sorry to say that doesn’t include many academics.
They offer, at least, some character, even plot, unlike the traffic cone on the curb.
It was the best of times, until the big man whose clock struck thirteen made it the worst of times.
You really have to swim down into yourself when you’re writing, which is why people confuse it all with mental illness.
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