sometimes
i forget who i am
not my name or location
just what sets me apart
due to desire
to be more like someone else

i just have to remember
i am an escapist
i am a vagrant
i am a writer
i am a pyromaniac
i am an inhabitant of purgatory
i am half living
i am an addict
i am a statistic
i am a radio wave surfer
i am a bridge burner
i am a coffee stain
i am two young lungs

i am the girl across the hallway
in an old jean jacket
with paint on her cheek
trying not to cry

and i hope someone remembers
because i'm trying to forget
that i exist
to make it unreal

Who am I?
I am whatever they want
me to be.
Which means I'm me,
but not me.
A different version of me.
That is what I am,
but not the version I want to be.

One. The "Church Me".
Two. The "School Me".
Three. The "Work Me".
Four. The "Home Me".
Five. The "Real Me". Who is She?
These are the versions of me.

It's so hard to stop the bleeding
together of the versions of me.
The "Church Me" would never
accept the "Real Me".
The "Work Me" would cancel out
the "School Me".
And the "Home Me",
just doesn't fit.

There's too many versions.
Too many.
I,
need to delete
the lies.
I need to
Delete, Delete, Delete, Delete
the versions of me.

Tell me.
What would happen if
one of the 'Me's' deleted was
The "Real Me"?

Who Would I Be?

Who Am I?

Am I the mistakes I've made?
Am I the scars made with a blade?
Am I insanity?
Am I the bad side of humanity?
Am I the inches around my waist?
Am I supposed to be easily erased?
Am I the imperfections I see every day?
Am I the monster that tried to take my life away?

Or...

Am I the books I've read?
Am I the love I spread?
Am I the dreams I've made?
Am I all those kind words I've said?
Am I the bright light in a world so dark?
Am I the bonfire spark?
Am I the creativity I emit?
Am I the hidden soul and spirit?

Who Am I?

I am a first generation
Park bench blue-jay.
I have scoured every subway
And train station track crack
Pattering my little feet
A little foot closer
To every cold heart
In every concrete city
From here to
where ever the ****
Blue birds go.

In my travels,
I have seen
Floorboards mold to the
Shape of a man's feet
Around the place
He prays every
Morning

In a much less a house
than it is a home.

I want my life to be a series of coming home.
I want my front door to be as open
As a bottle on a bad day.
And hey..
I don't condone getting
Absolutely freaking plastered,
But I want to be constantly
Under the influence of love

I want to be so
Intoxicated with
The music of the universe
That Brian Greene
Will never go
To another book signing.

I want to feel the orchestra
Of atoms in my hand
Like every Eagle Scout
Who earned his
Carving badge
On the bathroom stall

Y'all,
"I was here."

---And not one of you
Can write that
Like I  just did.---

I was here.
And God knows
If I go somewhere
I'll always know
How to get back

So if anyone asks me
What I'm going to
Do with my life
I'm gonna tell them that.
Because I swear,
I'm not anything more than me.
Experiencing this moment momentarily.

And honestly,
I have spent more time
And more money looking for the
Right church, than I have
The right God

And I have spent more time
And way more money writing
The perfect eulogy
To the parts of you and me
That I just never really buried.

I'm convinced that
When people die,
Their spirit remains
In a rebounding wave
Of influence propagated
By those whose lives they
Have changed,

So for better or for worse,
I want to be a tsunami.
I want my waves
To travel like butterflies,
And I want to dream cocoon.

I wanna learn to love the world
The way it loves the moon.
And maybe one day
My heart will grow so big
For every bumble bee
And baseball mitt
That I'll pull a Saturn
And put a ring on it.

Or.. Lots of rings..
One for every
Level of my love:
A through F...U..

..See, maybe Jesus
Will write a book
About us,
Call it the little prince,
And I will spend all day
And all night
Trying to convince you
That snakes can eat elephants.

And I swear
I will spend every
Sunset and sunrise
Gnawing my calluses
On a porch swing
Convincing myself, I think,
That these hands
Are soft as
Thunder.

And maybe then I'll listen
To a back alley
Street lamp
In the middle of
A snow storm
At that exact moment
Where electricity
And felicity
Are one in the same.

I have spent years
Looking for the answer
To who I am,
Searching through
Every letter
Of every poem,
That has ever
Spoken to two
Birds in love.

When I should have
Been out writing it.

Don't try to understand me
I cannot
I'm happy and sad
I get too emotional and never show it
I love too easily and too quickly

Don't try to understand me
You can try
And if you do
Tell me how to understand myself

-H.R.

“Who am I?”
I always ask myself.
And whenever I do
Countless of flashbacks races before my eyes
Telling me that I am this and I am that
Making me feel uncomfortable on my own skin
Confusing me

“Who are you?”
I ask again
But I don’t really know

"Who are you?"
For the third time I ask myself
And I remember how I used to be
Acting differently between people I meet

And for the last time
“Who are you?” I ask
Still, flashbacks
The memories of me being innocent
Memories of me being a monster
And I ask myself again

"Who am I?"

I miss you my dove
   do  you  really?
        It's you I love
          Are  you  sure?
               Please forgive me
                  not  very  likely
                    ­  I don't know who I must be.

Why  are  my  hands  so  ******.