The Tourist


Photo by Joao Melo Serreno

On verse one of the fully developed paragraph, beating at drums of my heated plush traits, I rebelled on my puberty becoming this new guided missile pole. In my adult life, I became him, the perfect persona, the crowd pleaser, the begged for mercy kind of gentile creature, the dazzled narrative latched in a page everyone desired.

He told me I was a bug, the fruit pie microbe mutating into a biscuit but I came to be pure as an ice water in a cooler.


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