He from she was born
becoming a poet, of sorts
laying it out, without
having to say so in
the streets of bumpy
matter, hardly ever lengthy
bouncin' to this from that
so nothing ever sticks,
hurt just as a lick
with a sick joke slapped
on the side, watching the
people pass, their paths
clear for the taking, or so
it seemed, in the beginning
but now, finding the path leading
to the right destination, racing
without resignation, only to find
the sign that reads, PRIVATE PROPERTY
keep out or be shot right
in the heart, he proceeds gently
not giving heed to warnings
until the morning after next
