Allen.

and i connect as he wrote his words, and encouraged me to not say what i should, but what i thought, in those words, and in only those.

to be unafraid for what mother thought, what father would say, how brother would be influenced and how she may be condemned from society.

but society had already condemned and thus he opened small corridors of her mind and promised that what she had to lose, she could afford to,

for what she held on to had less importance than what she longed to reach to.

and with filthy skins and fitly crevices, she herself could barely bare to look at,

with long thick fingers and bushy brows, and unpopped pills, and toxic blood, and bottles of colors and boxes of feet,

pumping constantly into heart of heart of roads that eventually lead her away into nowhere,

she picked up the pen to imitate, not his style, but his soul.

"we're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive.

we're all golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed and hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset.

spied on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sit-down vision."

Allen Ginsberg.