All I've ever done is feel like one.
Feel Feel Feel Feel.

the words clogging my face
violently flushing huge ***** of thoughts/ideas/dreams
through a skinny wire.

Here, I've always known who I am.
Who I was meant to be, exact as pie ingredients.
Then why is it like a foot
stepping through a nostril?

It's like a mad dating-game.
Wanting to be a writer 
is about as romantic as romance turns out to be.
Publishers won't publish me. 
Rejection is not a letter in the mail, but an advance 
only the gorgeous receive.
I don’t know how to make my cover letter **** for you.
If you shelled out three seconds to peer past the surface 
you’d see a house on fire. 
Flames waiting to land on paper.

The sight of white paper excites me.
It does. It does. Like a bash in the face--
What else can I do?!
Even from the grave there's the incurable
urge to grab its soft gorgeousness 
and defile it, like biting into an apple.
the devilish relief
that comes with marking the paper, 
making her say whatever my insides tell her to.
Making her mine.
covered in clumps of my poisons thick as beef stew.

Because there's nothing else 
that drives me to the moon.

I enjoy the taste of ink slipping into my mouth.
It makes me think that my pigeon-like awkwardness 
will someday be something else.
That somehow my life is intertwined with Plath, Poe, Twain, Frost.
When I was seven, I sewed their voices together like cloth
to stitch out a mind for myself.

I love my fingers when they are touching
the pages of a book, 
and I feel my fingers on the pages, and I feel the leafy pages,themselves
spreading apart, still all as one, like the wings
of seagulls
leading me, as they should
to the smell of beach.

And though it's all I could tear my throat out for 

I avoid writing
like muck on the floor.

It's no riddle. It's just 
because I shrivel up in pathetic hesitation 
even when it comes to doing what I am allegedly 
good at doing.
I fumble away like Humpt Dumpty, 
taped back into one whole glob with rolls of excuses
as I become obese with sadness.
Just like everybody else, I look off into the sky, thinking I'm 
unlike
everybody.

spinning along through 
the routines and sob tales that life dishes. 
Can't write a thing.
Watching TV. Drinking water, wine, soda. Getting a headache.
Too busy.

It's never the moment 
that I envisioned each moment should be.

tripping and singing to myself, 
a delicious illusion that I am somehow destined
to be adored.

I am a frozen pipe
unable to burst through and breathe. 

Everything I attempt with the pen turns to trash, and I am afraid
that I'll die without ever expressing 
that I have truly always been
what I can't ever seem to be— 
a writer,
pig-on-pig in love with it all these years, and all these years,
sorry that I hadn't given more.