Today I Got A Haircut

I am not a poet. But I am inclined to write. 

Silly how distant one can feel from his own thoughts.

As if a thought is anything to own.

Ownership. "This is mine. I claim this."

Certain desires arise from the grip of claim.

"I claim this and therefore it is mine. 

I shall protect it, care for it, and respect it."

Over time:

"This has gotten old. What else is there to claim?

I will neglect this, reject this, deflect this.

Yet my clasp shall remain tight upon my ownership over this."

At least, this is true for me. 

Truth. What is it anymore?

Has truth always remained the same, or

like a pocket of wind, or body of water

is truth defined heavily by it's immediate influence?

I.e. gravity, temperature, the moon, a vacuum between adjacent buildings.

I am no mystery.

There isn't much to me.

I want food, drink, fucking, and popularity.

There is the corner of humanity that fits me.

And though I am not mysterious, 

I keep myself hidden,

Fear...

Staring at the monster face to face.

My own personal devil.

By no means am I spectacular.

I am ordinary, plain white bread, bleached of all nutrients.

Current state: edible but not nutritious.

Current mood: excited but not necessarily excited.

Plagued by a lack of education.

I am an animal wandering the streets.

I dodge cars in traffic and pick at the scraps thrown to me,

with the audacity to be choosy.

I am filth.

Becoming the trash I consume.

I am grim.

The settling murderous black clouded dust.

There is a war within me.

And I am the War.

Victory: Life

Penalty: Death 

Obstacles: Honesty, courage, vulnerability, clarity, assurance, confidence.

There is a long drawn out wire before me.

It is suspended at a terrifying height.

It stretches out and across into the darkness.

And I know something is on the other side.

Will it be wonderful?

With decorated frills and erotic confetti?

Or is there only more darkness, more wire, more suspense?

Who cares.

This is my corner of humanity.

I might have chosen it.

I might have built it.

Either way, I have staked my claim.

And I accept that this claim may only be a phase

an oscillating phase that takes an eternity to come full circle

And this softens the blow

pads the pillow

But I am not a poet

Just a catastrophe with a built in panic button.