I Am A Movement

I am my own Jim Morrison. I am my own Janis Joplin.
The words at which I marvel and which I contemplate are my own.
Surreal eyes, profound hauntings:
my old photos reveal these kinds of things.
I am not Catholic. I am not Protestant.
I won’t enter your silly games, for I’m my own contestant.
Smiling knowingly, I’ll read your books.
And I won’t give you condescending looks.
Your stories I will hear and your advice I might take,
but I know that it’s my own soul pegged to the stake.
Follow me if you will — with that, I’m not concerned.
My own failures are the lessons that need to be learned.

I am my own Jim Jones. I am my own John Lennon.
I am the one who will keep me from sinnin’.
Forsaken love, mild melancholy:
my journals will tell you of my folly.
I am not an agnostic. I am not an atheist.
You won’t put me in a box, for I’m not a labelist.
With a shake of my head and a glint in my eye,
I’ll tell you I’m not afraid to die.
Your ideas have some value, and your experience is worthwhile,
but I know whose blood is splattered on the tile.
I will not back down. I will not cry or moan.
I am a movement. I am a religion of my own.