Fire A(la)rm

I'm looked upon

as a misfit,

or maybe just a guy

not like other guys.

A dude with

scribbling tentacles-

eight black ink pens

yearning to squirt

wet dreams

onto astronaut paper.

I write poetry.

I can't connect with men.

I carry a firearm

wherever I go

in case lunatic liberals

decide to stab me

in the back again,

like they do with every principle

they keep.

I'm not sure how this poem went

from this to that,

but rat-a-tat-tat..

who gives a fuck anyway?