Being Arrow and Quill Pen Simultaneaously

The arrow of thought is inside of me. I strike the bullseye and awake from dream sleep. The marauders take me beneath, away from society to torture deep. I am the quill pen that the forefathers did not keep. I just thought that the goose I came from was sweet. The reality of that space was elite, when I was petite. Broken arrow is the broken arm that X chromosome gave me. I die that night, Mr. Dye. All the Sheriffs in the globe came after me. I sat on your lap, publicly, and then gave you a special surgery. They all say this and that today. Maybe there is a kitty cat in my dream who will wake up my gorilla nation. I will stay in the land of the living, but I have already transmuted death from a young age. I sing a quiet song to the beat of the little drummer boy in Indianapolis. I gave him one night to lie on an inflatable mattress. I knew to kick his cracked out bootie the next day. Pirates overseas were so impressed with me. Maybe the illusions are too much for all of you. A solid mind can ACTUALLY understand poetry.