I'm a poet verging on the insane.
One who talks to God like an imaginary friend
on the subway at rush hour and then composes
dirty ditties for unsuspecting shy girls.
Or the ragged homeless woman
with a skeleton fit for musical composition
who wonders around passing out bastardized
badly spelled love notes on rags.
The one that stood on the Castle's roof top
and swore at every casino for blotting out the
constellations. Every night, I haul tubs of multi-color glitter
to the top, writing poetry to the moon that can't be seen.
Handful by vain handful, I throw my store bought stars
in the blah-black where they should be.
Notebooks by the dozen, over flowing
with hand made miracles and thrift store faith.
Collecting the left over pocket lint bits of life
from everyone else.
I'm not the sum of my life,
but less then what I've created.
And the least of you will always be
better then my greatest.
I'm really sure what happening.
I don't feel like me anymore.
I'm scared to turn 18.
Almost everyone I know who is an adult is failing.
More then half are drug addicts, two are homeless, almost none of them finished high school.