"Submissions"
My poetry's primitive.
I suck on a wolf's tits and out flows orange tea.
My mother breast fed me until I was 3.
Now I'm 4.
Going on 5.
Events don't make any difference these days.
What for?
Why?
It's like I'm on a high.
Can't you see me writing in the African sky?
My Piper paper plane will fly by!
I may scream and cry.
But I never want to die.
by Jonathan Billet - 10/29/13
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