Kimitake: heart of darkness.

I am overwhelmed by the great sensation of ending.
heart of darkness I am, phantom of recurring thoughts,thrown upon yours lap, declaring a farewell to the awaken, moving, breathing, boiling world of the moment.
the world that once held my misconsipted ideas of a fair, Japanese moment of heard thoughts and misty art, of my belonging to so much and yet not.
 I was a boy in east of japan, and my father digged within me the beauty and discipline of the military, the inevitability of an honorable death, the hope of a vast, widely destructive war.
and my 7 years of age did not stand a chance against naively absorbing poisoning words.
 I ran and poured everything, in coffee cups, in cigarettes, and smudged up wanna be poetry, I feared my fathers visits to my room, his random searches through my paper his earsplitting, shattering laughs at my attempt , at tortured literature.
"kimitake,kimitake" my grandmother would call, and I would run to her as she would tighten her grip on my small shoulders drowning me in the fog-ish darkness of her somewhat abandoned room, and she would show me her dolls, hold me so very close, I could smell her banana loaf.
 "what are you a girl" they would all say, and laugh at me, they would laugh at their own, stale, dull, unoriginal description of my artistic self, the young mindless boys at school, laughing at my poetry.
and my teachers would call me a genius would throw around big names of big magazines attempting to drain some money out of my well putt misery.
so I shelter my self behind the cluster of Shakespearean characters, drama class, I am Anthony, I am romeo, I am the lover of my time, I am king lear, and ceaser, the great magnificent ceasr whom my father thought to be an idiot.
and then they hold my name up high, say I am the king of literature, that my worn out words, stolen from unread books, that my thoughts, undone, melancholic thoughts, of a small revolution, of a smash hit grand revolution, are brilliant.
yet I am left in my room, as my father was, as my grandmother was, unchanged and unchanging.
I collect the best I could at one last attempt, I tell them of the thrush hold these dictators have, I beg the military men, I beg the tender hearted people, I am unseen, unheard.
I pic up the sword, the inevitable words of my mentally supprissed father, a samurai I go, secluded, cast away, in the haste of crept in possibility.
heart of darkness, henceforth.