HUDSON THE POET

Here’s part 1 of what will become a book-length ballad inspired by my life as an involuntary psych patient.

Hate to break it to you, but the story will end with the main character, who gets mistreated as a beast by shrinks throughout, truly acting like a beast.

There will be blood.

O long ago, in navigating a night
      without a celestial guide aglitter,
a Michael H on a mission to write, 
      as 'a fool to be handled like litter',
a poem to upraise sweet maniacs
      from the dirty dumpsters of class,
hit a media company with an axe,
      smashing their shopfront of glass. 
 
And yes, thought insanely flawed
      to singlehandedly battle a scrum,
our rebel accessed a psych ward,
      but alas, a Dr Oz, old and dumb,
when H pertly attempted to enter
      the underworld's phoenixlike lift,
elected to play a brutal tormenter 
      and robbed him of his poetic gift.

"Your poetry, an odd and lowly art,
      if recited from the highest of peaks,
might sow hope in the crazy heart,"      
      said Oz, smiling, "but I drug freaks",
and H, knowing a crude stereotype 
     can leave a whole city in mourning,
fairly resolved to aggressively snipe
     at journalists in need of a warning.