Is This a Poem
I have broken my bones for those before me
On the backs of those long behind me
In the mist of the present
A peasant of roses in the cracks of concrete,
Where seagalls steal was the beach I was born
I grew up on wine and words from my mother
The weeds covered all the birds of paradise
With friends of mice and men
And cigars to breathe
This was not his story but my own
This place where no one moves to fast.
And every acts proper and grown
I remember writings on the walls of toilet stalls
That kept me warm at night. A place of mountains and water falls, where I did hold you tight. That is the place I wish stay, till this very day.
Is this a poem?
I don't know anymore...
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