Recklessly waving my ribcage like some paper prize for all to see,
I can't quite see what I think,
I trust my gut too much and follow a trail unnamed, untamed, unfeigned.

It's offensive; being pensive and walking slowly, defensive.
It is not my right to gain her sight without giving something in return.
I have nothing to give, when will she learn.

I am a pauper, improper.
I am an author, a stalker,
A talker.

I have words and letters,
The bird's feathers,
But I cannot fly.

I've tried.