You remember what you wanted to be when you grow up?

Right now

When I grow up

I want to be a poet

Even if I am homeless and I use all my green paper

To buy myself some white paper

Just to fuck it up all over again

I have muddied so many perfect things

With my dirty hands

Dirty thoughts

Dirty feelings

If I don’t etch myself away on something

How can I ever come clean?

Especially if I am homeless

I will cut these words out of me if I have to

I will soap box my heart out

From anywhere

Even if no one is listening

I don’t mind being the self talking

grungy stutterer you step into the street to walk away from

That awkward smacking is just me working the psalms

From the roof of my mouth like holy peanut butter

They are bitter and equally disgusting to the pallet as they are the ear

But the truth has a nasty taste

And beauty is always buried under layers of dirt

And I can’t wipe hard enough

I will never be approachable

I need to find at least 10 ways to say

No longer negotiable

I want to be a poet

Just some guy who

Puts ink to paper

The same way he

Puts paper to face

In order to soak the bleeding of his blemishes

If I don’t use something

To wipe away my dirty

How will I ever be clean?