Tradition

I often wonder why I'm here.

I often plunder and cannot hear.

I often speak with no vocal noise.

I often listen but cannot sear.

I often know but cannot say,

I bear the wounds of my way.

I would often see, but, close my eyes.

I often thought and wore disguise.

I often scream, "you do not feel".

I often vomit, this is surreal.

K.A.P. 

5/29/2009