This Sure Beats the Hell Out of Algebra, Doesn't It? (poem)

Dr. Who-me?, eww.
You can't see or understand that I'm the Invisible Man with jewelry?
You lookin' pretty paltry & pouty
I'm feelin' kinda rowdy
like a cowboy that don't say, "Howdy."
Pennywise,
I am the ultimate Ghostwriter:
John Ritter,
only bigger & more bitter
and, yea, you could figure...
on a star.
All those
Once Upon A Time
wishes,
tend to go
a bit too far.
Tracy Chapman
said you got a fast car.
But all men be playars.
All womb-men be bitches,
and give birth in a rut
'cause of a sting in the gut
so what you breed
gets called mutt and never gets what they need
to sleep
and feel alright.
So they grow-up like me
and ghostwrite.
Say they, "Al'right,"
when they're not all right.
Every step a jihad,
Every breath a fight.
They might let you pray if you're lucky.
Even if he does love you,
he'll still fuck me.
With pay.
Tell you it's addiction,
tell me it's fiction,
but it's the predilection
you know not of.
You laying on the rug
lip bleeding
feeling OOBE
very Obi-Wan Kenobi
wondering what Dad's thinking
rocking his Lazyboy in,

in the dark.

Every step a jihad,
every breath a fight.