…….. What I am.

I am a hydra. When one head is cut off, two more grow in its place. I transform my pain into a new rebirth.

I am straining against my own skin, muscles stretch with the urgency that is clear cut and precise.

I am the urgency to take what I have, and can experience in this godforsaken and forgotten universe of awe inspiring mayhem and miracle and make it concrete with the words that spill from the tips of my fingers.

I am a writer. And a philanthropist. And a politician. And a needy, clingy, greedy, charitable, independent, WALKING CONTRADICTION.

I am a female.

I am all man’s desire in one tight body with the perfect mixture of two parts intellectual prowess, two parts sexuality, a sprinkle of desire, a dash of tongue, and a pinch of sarcasm to taste.

But, I am no Wife of Bath. She who gives life to 14th century anti-feminism. No, that’s not me.

I am self-evident and self-sufficient.

I am not some docile flower picker in a field of yellow nor am I frolicking.

I spit fire and breathe rage and seek alabaster truth.

Dusty hallways framed in Victorian fashion and front porches coated in soggy leaves are my hunting grounds where the scent of recently burned cigar lingers and the nostalgia of tomorrow sets in.

And I am inclined to reach out, not with palms wide so as to let moments slip through my fingers, but with hands gently cupped as if to catch the verses as they fall from experience and observation.

I am the bringer of emotion: unequivocal tantrums, unstoppable tears, and unrelenting sighs. But also palpable joy, vocalized calm, and requited love.

I want what I cannot have. Simple pleasures great desires and all things in between.

I drink black coffee and let the sour taste sit in the back of my throat while the warmth fills me from the roof of my mouth to my womb. I am dependent on this bitter sweet liquid, my heart beats quicker, thundering in my eardrums. I am high on the insanity I feel. I am not calm unless I am under stress, teetering on the tip of a needle pin pointing turmoil trespassing in my mental terrace.

I am always the same, consistently changing like Siddhartha’s faces in the river.

I am enlightened though it has taken hundreds of years of war and peace and flux and stagnation and pride and envy and wrath and sloth and gluttony and greed and lust but I am humble in these and others though I am far from free of them.

I am tired. Not just of body though there is much of that. But of mind and soul. I am tired of yearning for the urn and the nightingale. Thinking causes me misery.

I am misery, I am what keeps people up at night remembering sullen pasts and dreaming up realities that will never come into existence, never made, never fertilized, never solid.

I am what touches the deepest corners of your night stained thoughts, of your dreamlike nooks and crannies, I seep into you and spread to your bloodstream I am here, I am there, I am everywhere, and you cannot get rid of me.

I am in love with the universe! Although … I don’t think she loves me back. But the universe is for me, and so is everything else.

I am off topic…

Does any of this even resonate with you? Without you… who am I?
Without you I am none of this.

With you- I expand horizons by shrinking them down to the width of a page! With you! Only with you!

Let it be know what I am…

I am a POET.