In the Flourishing


Tulpa sculpted from the tumultuous words of others, my past is a thought-form I’ve moved on from and gotten over, killed more than once, vanquished to vanishing every reinvention I’ve lived, never again thinking into existence that insecure being whose mission to behave and please and obey disordered my architecture’s frame and smothered my flame, no mother can replace a father whose son replicates his heritage with such distinct singular conviction,,


to deny him his inheritance is a sin graver than expecting a kid to bear no witness, no resemblance, to his kin, I am the indigent prodigy, spendthrift genius, of a family she never could afford to admit spoon-fed her fears with ambitions nourishing my greatness instead, how better the world actually is, and beneficial to me, benevolent to my temperament, than she misrepresented, I have no birthday, no origin, I willed my


Self into being, borne of no one but my own dreaming the following through of which was encouraged by those heroes I worshipped, not some fiction perpetuated by some gaslighting bitch whose influence my confidence long ago extinguished, I am as peerless as I am parentless, parenthetical as any true artist worth his notorious defiance of categorization or tradition, I am because I choose to exist, not some victim of circumstance or transference.