I am my own Jim Morrison. I am my own Janis Joplin.
The words at which I marvel and which I contemplate are my own.
Surreal eyes, profound hauntings:
my old photos reveal these kinds of things.
I am not Catholic. I am not Protestant.
I wonít enter your silly games, for Iím my own contestant.
Smiling knowingly, Iíll read your books.
And I wonít give you condescending looks.
Your stories I will hear and your advice I might take,
but I know that itís my own soul pegged to the stake.
Follow me if you will — with that, Iím not concerned.
My own failures are the lessons that need to be learned.
I am my own Jim Jones. I am my own John Lennon.
I am the one who will keep me from sinniní.
Forsaken love, mild melancholy:
my journals will tell you of my folly.
I am not an agnostic. I am not an atheist.
You wonít put me in a box, for Iím not a labelist.
With a shake of my head and a glint in my eye,
Iíll tell you Iím not afraid to die.
Your ideas have some value, and your experience is worthwhile,
but I know whose blood is splattered on the tile.
I will not back down. I will not cry or moan.
I am a movement. I am a religion of my own.
The first half was written on Feb. 22, at 21:00. The last half was written at the date/time listed above. When I read the title to my roommate MAH, his immediate response was: “You might be a bowel movement.”