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I know a man who was born with his heart on the outside
Every man's worst fear, he also had heavy hands
He couldn't touch his lover's face, he couldn't hold the baby
He would never desert 'em, but he was worried he would hurt 'em, maybe.

Mad at the world, his face turned hot pink
The best he could do was just try and not think
But he was too bothered, so he would only try rarely
He read the last page of every book in the library.

He lacked the charisma of a true revolutionary
Crime fighter, would try to write, but kept breaking his typewriter
He'd preach his manifesto like a militant radical
Was dilligent, but his greatest mistakes were grammatical.

If he only spent more time rehearsing, preparing,
there wouldn't have to be so much cursing and swearing
Eyes on fire, his volume was blistering
No one had taught him about the power of whispering.

He is dynamite: blows kisses, eats dirt
Mouth of a volcano, he is a t-shirt
He stands on stilts, but doesn't stand for funny stuff
Ask me? He just hasn't been around the sun enough.

He paints self-portraits with a ruler, only eats corn,
and then tries to sell his own soul on the street corner
He always remembers everyone's numbers and
sometimes cries into his own cumbersome hands.

~ from Square One by Buck 65

If I could write a story half as good as this,
I would consider my work done.

llama_city