Yesterday, had another session with my psychologist,
Agreeing my writing inflates my ego and confidence.
I’ll just continue as a populist with the mind of freedom of speech,
Regardless of the consequence,
I’m going to continue my stories as a poet and novelist.
With my writing, I take control, I transform from submissive to dominant.
The other day, I had a heart to heart with my cousins and aunt.
Revealing the support of me exposing the memories that still taunt me,
Continue to rant and flaunt, every now and then, an inspirational speech.
Until I can get all my anger locked up in a vault permanently.
It’s okay to throw me with all the faults.
In return, I’ll keep writing on topics critics don’t want.
Infamous or famous, it’s not the entitlement I am worried about.
My writing is a gift that drains all my heartfelt doubt.
Like a toilet, the shit will need to be cleaned with bleach.
Like a dog with rabies, my words will continue to lash out,
Until my resentment feelings can drain out.
Don’t think I can no longer turn back around from this route.
It’s the only way I know how and I refuse to back down.
I’m switching gears, increasing my speed towards the future,
A healthier self-medication than when I was a smoker and boozer.
Writing has been adopted as my new nurturer.
I could care less who, friend or foe, become my jurors.
I’ll just continue on this creative adventure, looking for my ultimate treasure.