This is not poem.

That is to say,

I am not a poem today.

I don’t rhyme all the time

But I rhyme when I rhyme

So the times when I rhyme

I don’t time I just rhyme.

This is not a poem,

It’s a sign.

Something you

were meant to find.

(Its like dick to your mind,

Well, . . . Like a p***y to mine.)

This poem does not identify as poem,

Or prose, or any type of poetic mumbo jumbo.

It maintains and requires no pronouns at this time.

It chooses to identify as JULIAN the INKED.

This article of writing has no form, it does not care to be read but it was maid . . .  E . . . made  to inform.

This is too near to be clear and too far from the norm.

A shit storm.

As they say in the industry.

What industry?

That

Is the mistery.

Of Misery

Pissery.

I am no poem.

I am not even poetic or rhythmic,

I am horrific idle jiverish

The gift exchange that’s re exchanged

For Xmas, Hanakka

In

Santa

Monica.

I’m serious, don’t even THink of thinking of mE As a poem.

Stop trying to find my flaws or my form.

In fact, I’m not here to perform or inform.

I’m here to belong

Not to

be

Long.

16 strong.

This is for

The Poeticly

Mentally spiritually Strong.

Keep on keeping on.

You know how you know when you’re doing great!?

When you get 16 candles on your g*dd*m cake!

This is no poem.

This is a congratulatory note.

For being the 16th poem that you wrote.

(Today, In 16 hours, beast mode).

To the few, the proud, the crazy crowd.

Salute.