i am a poem.
my stanzas are in my skin. my rhythm in my heart.
beat in my fingertips.
pulsating.
my scars are my story. the ones you can see and the ones you cannot.
i am many mistakes, lines words phrases X out.
change this to sound prettier, change that to make sense.
i am my history as ink to paper, traveling incessantly, twists and turns and loops.
i am cursive and i am print.
i am story and i am song.
these inkblots are in my veins wicked and tangled.
i am free to be what i choose, whether it is what you like or not.
i am insatiable, for my words are endless.
i am lies and i am truths, manipulation of words to caress the readers ear.
i am adjectives and nouns.
i speak verbs to make me move.
i am hesitant when i wish then i am done.
i am goodnight sun, goodmorning moon. i am swordfights and fairytales galore.
i am sensible by little means, but you listen just the same.
i am a beginning, i am a middle, and i am an end. but not this end...