I'm not her.
I'll never be her.
I'll never be as, vivacious
as frequent
  as she.

Your loveslave has a certain
blunder to her.  A
  wisp to her
movements, swift poiseful
soft   vengeance.

I have positive elements to my
aura of
person, but ultimately
  none that catch
your attention.

That's fine.
I'm over it.
I'm getting on   over
  it.  I've called my sweet
insides back   up
  from my throat.

I am not she but
  yes,  I am me.

a human.
a sentence.
a timescape.
a soul.

I may not have picket fence
beauty, bad
  grounding, electric lampshades for
eyes or breasts that scream
  your sweet
  appetite.

I have a masquerade face and
an astutely trained
   heart;  a voice and
  so many songs left
to nimble.

Several
   dreamscopes of pain
lie beneath human sheetrock, no
soldier surpasses
  it.  No soldier can
touch it.

I have talents that elevate
  fresh white mountain tops, blue
  rivers of milk, soft skin
 and jade hues.  

I have several
wise cracks
I only tell to the
  night and they wait
in the     midair
to get caught by fresh
lips.


I am not her.
I'll never be her.

I am soul.
I am timescape.
I am sentence.
I'm living.