An expert for a poem. Do you know the author of this poem?

Question

found in the book The perks of being a wallflower

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Chops”
because that was the name of his dog
And that’s what is was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X’s
and he had to ask his father what the X’s meant
And his father always tucked him into bed at night
And he was always there to do it
Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Autumn”
because that was the name of the season
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly...

*exerpt is what i wanted to say

Answer 1

Chbosky wrote a novel which includes or refers to the poem:

It actually was written by Dr. Earl Reum, there is a story of a 14 year old boy (Patrick Comeaux) who used it as a suicide note, and wrote parts of it down wrong, but this has neither been proven nor disproven. Stephen Chbosky, the author of "The perks of being a wallflower," used it in his book and made this remark on the dedication page;

"And Finally . . .
Dr. Earl Reum for writing a beautiful poem
and Patrick Comeaux for remembering it wrong when he was 14."

Answer 2

Yes, he's Stephen Chbosky

Answer 3

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Different every day. Today my favorite is Brooklyn's Coming by Jeanann Verlee: an open letter to Sarah Palin On October 17, 2008 at a fundraiser in Greensboro, NC, Sarah Palin stated that small towns are “the real America.” Dear Sarah: There is a girl on the loose side of Brooklyn who wears tap shoes, prays for rain, and keeps an origami zoo on her ceiling. (This is no metaphor. I know her.) She likes wine, but won’t drink it. She lurches and stops, reverses, lurches again. She is a windup toy hitting walls, bouncing back, restarting, churning and churning, ever forward. (This is a metaphor. She is not, actually, a toy, Sarah.) This girl has gold where her heart used to be. She is damage dressed in Gap and you would call her jezebel. She is expert in cute and quirk but this girl is gravel tested, pulp vein and chipped tooth, she is America. You, Sarah, use cute and quirk like grenades. You use your children like cheerleaders’ pompoms and your husband like some polished gold badge. There is a single mother on the cut-knee side of Brooklyn who wears her daughter like a smile, works sixteen-hour days and uses the bitter on her tongue like a bulletproof vest. She paid overtime cash for her daughter’s braces, had to hold a fundraiser to pay for her own surgery. She likes Starbucks and soul food. I know her, too, Sarah. I know the woman in the window who wears good leather and keeps her closet filled with broken men. A girl with pomegranate-apple salad who tongue-kisses girls, writes in code and speaks the language of canary. I even know a woman with a peacock-plumed tiara and nearly five children who keeps libraries behind her eyes and children’s stories under her skin. She uses lead canisters in fist fights and has hearts for eyes. (This is almost a metaphor.) Don’t you see it, Sarah? Like your small town “real,” Brooklyn, too, is America. And her belly is full. She is fat on jezebel: women with eight children and women with none. Women who have sent their children to war, buried them in flags. Women beaten so badly they no longer speak words. Women who love women. Women who educate. Women who have never owned a designer bag and buy their clothes at 99 cent discount stores. Women who have aborted and women who have adopted. Women who inject heroin and women who raise other women’s children. Women who only buy organic orange juice. This is Brooklyn. This is America. So be careful. Because we have grown tired of your winks and your instant clichés, bored with your Charles and Katie blunders, with your shotguns and your oil fields, with your unpaid rape kits and your banned books. So while you inject Botox into the lips of pit bulls, pull your hair into its neat little bun, slip on your smart glasses and turn back the clock for women’s rights, remember us. Careful, Sarah, Brooklyn’s coming.