I am a serious person,

Like the sounds of feet scrapping together

Or the quietly moaned stifling my words.

If we all grew up in nice neighborhoods,

The world would be a more productive globe.

We would discover how to destroy what we see,

How to paint impressionably by the left side of a tree at night,

Inhabiting the lamp posts bulbs.

I am not negative,

Just creation

In its dirtiest mud filled piles of forms,

Addicted to masturbation,

To hitting the send button,

To cancelling accidental texts.

I am your cum stained panties,

Your peers self respect.

I am your grabbing hands and

The language between your toes.

I am your afternoon whiskey water pick me up,

The hardened specks of rodent digestion.

I am your Friday night girl and Saturday’s rejection.

I am my father’s daughter,

My sister’s friend,

My dog’s human mother.

I am, I am

The sorry sap who wrote one too many

Love letters.

I am the projection of your questions about life

 like the bird seed you throw on your

Million dollar homes at night.

The vomited mass of nutrients you wish you hadn’t eaten

Or the booze I consumed that you wish you had.

You are what I am

In my wildest dreams,

Where ex-lovers send you unopened letters

You’ve been waiting to receive.

They tell you it’s not you it’s only

What you perceive.

I am the harrowing avoidance of phone calls,

Of planned visits,

Of 1am sex.

I am the persistent itch of biting bugs

And the temporary scratch.

I am, what you are,

What you are not.

I am, what I am,

What I am.

Is someone else’s poem,

Is a drug fiend’s autobiography,

Is my sleepy eyes at night when the nostrils burn off their arc like dance to the fires.

 What I am,

Is this. 

Is the only thing no one else can know how,

Of locking what you couldn’t chain,

Finding the end someway in the somehow.