I'm not a force of nature.

I'm a breath and a punch and a bead of sweat rolling down my right temple.

I'm a taxi cab driver with drunk girls in the backseat, driving in circles so they can sober up just enough to get home to their mothers.

I'm a wingful of feathers, a tomorrow full of betters, a page full of headers--

I'm a fighter, a nail-biter, a wave-rider, I'm no writer but my fingers are still insisting to dance across the letters of my handheld typewriter.

I'm a nuisance, not completely useless but not enough to move a mountain and I may not even be enough to do this.

I'm a mouthful of oxygen and a brain full of oxycodone; I'm an overdose waiting to happen and I can't get enough of you.

I'm every in-between stage of adjustment and self-discovery, unaware of my identity and that my own enemies are the deepest parts of me.

I'm a self-made insomniac, an ace of spades and a hypochondriac, a mild wave of confidence but I'm too afraid to contradict the empty pages in my conscience, I'm a...

I'm an outlaw, I'm an outcry, and I'm full of **** half the time and my **** writing doesn't really rhyme.

But that's fine.