I am in exile
a soul in a dumb body.
and in this land
with this language
I fail miserable
I rattle out
meanings
no one understands.
I've confessed
all of this
in a therapy group
They said it was
authentic
I say it is still a lit
Can I really reflect
my agony?
If so
shall it sell?
Then I can
go to poetry
conventions
and speak about
the years of my exile
my suffering
those feelings
of isolation
and retardation
and how I hid
in the corner
with my inferiorities.
Thus with such
wordly acclaim
I can let go
of my therapies.