Is it my loudness that troubles you? Is it the clearness in this volume that stretches your soul thin like wire that rumbles your skeleton? Is it my bravado? Is it my talent that intrigues your spinal chord, your alignment and shatters your chakras? Boast! I boast! For shame, you fear this man who contemplates in meditation. For shame, you harp on the man who makes his talent his work. This is my work ethic. This is my routine, my habitual ritual. I could speak these words in loudness but I would rather write them in silence. In inspiration. In the quiet. I’ve rattled God’s body with these writings, had Her question Her creations one by one. There is no hallelujah for me. There is no salvation. I spew like Hellish volcanoes, I am taboo. Like when your ancestors met mine and called them savages. I was born a demon with angelic smile and a propensity for poetry. My veins aligned like roots and branches, my lungs heavy like Oak trees. I speak in Nature’s tongue. This is forbidden in your holy land, in the strip malls of your Pope and bishops. I speak like golden calf, I am Sin.