I may not be an author- or a poet,
But when I scrawl these words down on paper-
Or type stories on my cracked, 14 year old laptop,
And get up at 5:30 for the sole purpose of furthering my career,
I feel like a **** good one,
I Sip on a warm cup of coffee,
Spawn characters that shout out, “Hey Jack, that ain’t me!”
When I forget that I can’t use Samuel Chayner in a way
I could use any other of my creations,
Because they’re all different,
With many facets to make every one original,
Because in my mind, I can be the best author,
Or the best poet,
When I sail on open sea,
Taste the salt water and smell the fresh shrimp,
I can hunt for a colossal wail,
Call me Ishmael,
But as I start to dream up another world,
Where artificial intelligence was created
In the early twentieth century,
Where these barbaric southerners
Don’t know what to do with such
High-tech automatons, but to make a quick buck,
Where I can make my own family,
With their own disputes,
Of whether to go to college in 1910,
But the mother might lose her son,
Her one true friend,
Who could hold her when she was sad,
Who would simultaneously be her sweet little baby,
But she won’t accept it;
She won’t bury her decomposing son,
Because she doesn’t have the heart to bury him alive,
Or because, in my mind, they are my playthings,
I could have the mother move along,
Try for another child,
But this is my mind, and I am the author.