Wine, us Italians do:
Woke; hung over
impure thoughts of you.

In the arena,
success means everything,
and potential means nothing.
And everyone with tattered sleeves
is written off as vague, gray, and
lost to the doldrums of dreams.

No one wants you to be lost here.

It was cute when you were younger,
but you're too old to pretend.
Just be successful at being you,
whatever it is, that you do.

I want to go back to the playpen,
but not just to **** around.
I want to be a puppy with potential,
not what you perceive
to be the success
or failure of my identity,
Because my potential
is what makes me successful
as a human being,
so, believe in ME!

Mother, please believe that
my zigzagging monogamy
is a rainbow array, not color theory.
I'm sorry you'll have to wait
for grandchildren to play
in your backyard...
with my future husband...
What if they were playing...
with my future wife?

Lover, please believe that
when I open my heart
I'm not doing it
to capture and pin yours down
I just want to feel it beat.

Stranger, believe that
I am not trying to win your praise,
I am ignorant, naive,
and ambivalent to white lies.

Friend, believe that
I am actually concerned
with how YOU feel.
I'm not just asking to be polite.

Boss, believe that
I am not the title
you use to assign and reward me.
I am a human.
I'm good at learning the rules of these games.

Audience, believe
that I am not a poet.
I just feel strongly
and write those feelings down.

Ego, believe that
I am smarter than you, wrapped up
in other's presence about ME.

I am just ME,
yet I rarely feel like ME.
I often just feel like trying to be
what you want me to be.
Ego, I must remind you everyday
to leave ME at peace.

The dormitory of routine ends,
clouds form in purple sky,
silent air absorbs
into the soft night. 
The black palm trees,
a welcome void,
The wind,
a lonely whisper,
the chill,
a curious reminder
of your cool palms
caressing my warm skin,
in a crowded parking lot,
where no one could see us.
Still, you hid your hands
in the folds of my jacket.

Clenching my teeth,
I cringe while you read my old poems.

Ahhhhh!
That's not me!
I swear!
I've changed!
I'm not so immature!

There would be nothing more satisfying
than crumbling that **** up
and showing you how great I am.

But those poems are the legs I stand on.
I can't cut them off, can I?

Those awful poems!
Sporn from longing and lust -
I called it "love" -
my cranky post-grad years,
living with my parents,
and working minimum wage jobs...
all I hide is there, for you to see;
most people don't look.

I want to erase it all!
I sometimes hope my old poems
are accidentally thrown away.
Then I wouldn't be at fault for
all those lost thoughts.

I don't want you to read them,
but I just can't rid myself of them!
Even now,
when those reflections seem far from the truth.
I hoard them. They are pasted on my mirror.

So I stand,
begrudgingly transparent.
Front to back, see through
and scared shitless you'll
discover I'm not perfect
in this personality economy;
I prepare my list of apologies:

Sorry I'm scarred
Sorry I'm chopped
Sorry I'm *******.

So please —
don't talk about my old poems.
Let's pretend you haven't read them.

When I was a child
my only task
was to write the world down...

But too often I had
neither pen nor paper.

Now I have
a fingertip keyboard,
and I write sometimes...

But too often
I'm just
responding to messages.

The goat cries
and cries
and cries
and cries
Everyone says shut up
but it still cries.

I'm not a poet?
I just write things down...