Old Skool

Here’s a part of Griffin. I typed this in 8th grade. I hope no one would judge it harshly on its poetic quality or spelling/punctuation, but perhaps one might notice the nostalgic hilarity.

The name is a shell
I am I
I think I know who I is
Do I?
I do and I do not
I have a shell and a core
I think the shell is the core
The eyes of the shell are narrowed
This lets pierce the shadow and the clounds
My shell soars above on great wings
I am my shell
My shell is not who I am
The hunting eyes of mine spy field mice below
They play and run in seeming random loops
I fool myself into thinking them as no more than quaint
I despise them for thier supidity
I love them for thier naivette
My love and hate both are produts of my shell
My shell is a great hunter
I can dive upon these helpless field mice
I have many tool which would aid me
My eyes can see them miles high
M wings can keep me high and help me dive
My feline body is made for pouncing and spinging
My claws can cleave and pierce
My last tool brings all others to harmony


The other eight and some odd pages of that perilous ode are linked to below, as are two random books I haven’t read but had each some kind of effect on our modern thingy.
Griffin
The Communist Manifesto
Thus Spoke Zarathustra