Frederick Thugless

I Frederick Thugless, was born before you by an oak tree in a pile of leaves on a cool July afternoon. I like to remind myself that books and I  both derived from the sun and the earth, only the books will outlive this sunflower. A thorough, passion in reading body language sparked my reading endeavor at the age of four.  Every letter was a tone, a note. Every word was a poem. My teacher abandoned me and I was cast out into the depths of my mind with a few letters and novel words to keep me buoyant as a boy at sea. Making it back to shore able minded, I am a skillful harpooner of my mind able to recall and retrieve the most poignant term swimming the deep dark waters of my complex lexicon. I did not come on the Nina, the Pinta, nor the Santa Maria and could care less how I got here.  Ink quills quiver as I approach them, the biceps of men can’t wrestler my finger tips. My voyage toward mental freedom was full of toils and strife which I transcribed onto gathered papyrus.  The New World loved my story, although they did not understand. My autobiography was mass produced. My thoughts converse with the thoughts of those other ships passing in the night. To burn books is the sinking of relationships and the drowning of men.