I have this little pink composition notebook with that title written across it.
After feverishly writing in it while I was in Europe, a ******* our trip asked what I meant by that title.
I made up some excuse,
because when you are stuck in a room with three girls, the last thing you want to admit is that you aren't quite a girl.
This notebook is full of prose and poetry about gender and binaries and prefixes that a national merit scholar has trouble understanding.
Most people on that trip would not need a notebook on why they don't belong.
Because they do,
and I do not.

if i were a boy
to be honest
i would probably do all the things you boys do -
i would **** girls
and take names

being a girl
if i had the same ability you do
i would **** boys
and take names

but i am blessed by my shortcomings
my chubby face
my awkward side profile
my angular nose,
my gender.

Today I caught myself watching the clock, tirelessly counting
seconds, minutes, and moments; for in that short time it was clear,
I am here.
But how much of me?
The blood coursing through my veins, feeding my flesh,
feels thick and real; but is it just a projection, my perception
of BEING?
Could it be that my outward senses are nothing more than
a coping mechanism, a tether if you will,
meant to keep my mind still and my body grounded?
When released from my dermal prison, will my consciousness escape me,
or will it rise up free with no boundary?

Perhaps we are sturdy and real, something I can feel,
something to grasp.
Or, perchance, we’re merely a cloud of energized matter, buzzing madly
through time and through space.
An imaginary face, nothing more.
Although the latter leaves a bittersweet taste on my fictitious tongue,
now to me it is clear. This isn’t so much a poem about
Clarity,
as it is a poem about questions.
Question.
Because if the cold ceased to bite, and the bee never stung,
would I be someTHING, or would I be someONE?

If someone wrote a book about me,
about my life,
it would be boring.
It would be the same thing everyday with occasional flare ups of happiness and love.
The ending would be good though.
The part where the main character kills himself, that will make the book.
Up until the final chapter it will be boring but you have to read it.
You have to understand.
You have to understand why the book must end.

to live
in order to never
have a "moment"
of entitlement encapsulated
with photographs
where the narcissism
is multiplied
for the camcorder of
recognising eventual
histories of inevitableness,
stressed, in a single man's fame;
i swear we should stop
using the words 'celebrity culture'
and call it for what it's worth:
an imploded zoology.

This spiteful poem has no title.
That doesn't mean it's not entitled to a title
it just means, it hasn't got one.
It's not in any way vital to title
a poem is it?
Without a title, would a rival thieve
the poem?
Without a title, it means there is no
subject matter. Does that matter?
I guess at a recital a title helps,
it introduces the poem to an audience.
Let's face it, the poem is not going to get
suicidal if I don't give it a title!
It's not going to go all homicidal, suicidal,
or self harm.
Will it sue me for libel?
Am I being frightful?
I think it's delightful that this poem
has no title.
Maybe, what I should have titled this poem, was
"Poet being idle".

Let my enemies stand before me
baring their fangs like wild dogs
as they circle around
minds racing
finding a weakness

Let them establish a plan
to drench the earth before us
with the stench of scarlet blood
whomever’s it may be
in the end

For I will fight the good fight
even if the last thing i swallow
is the pain that encumbers my every fiber
my last breathe will not be in vain
but one less they will be able to take

For my last giving moments
will be tough earned
and the last thing that will slip from my lips
will be a promise of vengeance
if that is the way the earth mote it be