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My Awsum Poeme

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i am writting becose i want 2 c wot its like 2 hav a fan submishin in this forrim.

i rote this poeme 2day:

When I was small I slept in tents
With awkward friends and we discussed
The noblest ways to die,
And they involved heroic deeds
Or stunning feats or shots at martyrdom.
No child I knew was democratic;
Nature knows no such thing,
Kings, if they were good,
Were the obvious and only rulers allowed.
I got scolded for making racial slurs
Before I could tie my shoes;
I’d point at passing Chinamen
And pull at the corners of my eyes,
Because things really were that way.
It was funny to hear people passing gas
Or chewing noisily like dogs,
Yet rude to point out humanity
In people my parents wished to impress.

Later with friends when discussing my death
And the possibilities for horror therein,
I made it a point to impress on my pals
That I did not wish for a Christian burial.
The worst way to die, we decided,
Is to die in the presence of a priest,
His dark eyes pressuring you to confess,
Expecting from you a final apology
Before the doors shut on you forever.

Yet I grew older and wiser and duller,
Laughing less, my guilt piling up,
No longer finding it proper to point at fat people,
Saying, “Look how fat that man is, Mother,”
And trying to seduce girls whose imperfect bodies
Made them easy targets for my flattery.
It isn’t okay, anymore, to reject democracy,
Or to sleep in a tent with another male,
Or to read books meant for the opposite sex.
But now that my breathing’s difficult,
My heart is ripped up from years of
Jogging to stay in shape and falling in love
With women whom I could only disappoint;
Now that the stress of trying to make a living
And staying “sane” has taken its toll,
I am still inclined to reject your priest
And your cards and bouquets,
Still steadfast in my refusal to allow anyone
To visit me simply to say “I’m so sorry about…”
While they still have the time.
I will apologise for having been late
Or inadvertently offending some innocence.
But for pulling the corners of my eyes
With my grubby child’s fingers and saying, “China!”
Or failing to understand the merits of democracy,
Or eating all of the peanut butter,
Making artwork out of my mother’s papers,
Burning ants under a lens or eating too much —
For that I won’t apologise.
I want my dying howl to echo in your ears
As you trudge through the mud of your lives:
The Emperor is naked!