like a true poet, i sit at my desk and write,
smoke nicotine over spilled ink, pour myself over
a glass of 19 Crimes, because it feels like it is one -
to be a mad woman, cursed with obsession
of hearing your own voice and alluding alliteration.
how quickly i can disrupt, then ask for forgiveness later,
saying exactly as it is, in one breath and nine tones -
which makes it easier to hate me - do you?
they call me a *****, but at least they're calling,
to condense my multitudes (and diction), to mania.
i always felt most beautiful with my eyes rolled back,
and you let me talk-back, I love you more for it,
when we play with words, and sometimes each other.
these days i've been resting more easily, learning slowly
not to bite my own tongue, or the hands that feed it.
i am all too often self-centered, and violently expressive,
skipping dinner, and structure, for expansion.
i want everyone to trust me, so i speak too earnestly,
and make everyone uncomfortable in the process.
but it's not my fault, that i can only be myself,
a mad woman, but not always a woman scorn,
like a true poet, i am mostly just a brat with a pen.