I am…

bound to my hands and their supposed magnificence.

My hands

Etching in curves my heart can taste.

Composing in colors my eyes can feel.

They are…

baring my flesh to seekers and dreamers, onlookers and standbys.

Wooing and making some new Romeos.

Disenchanting and leaving others as dewy Iagos

of my lines.

I am…

an artist

I reluctantly accept

for a shame that others are more.

My pencil and I…my brush and I

Behold, we are peculiar "lovers".

Apart so seldom and

together we are my selfdom.

I am…

An addict of words and tongue and sound spoken.

Enchanted by gorgeous words spilling from learned lips.

Yet, I am more indulgent of pursing my own.

I am a writer.

A title that divulges my love affair with words,

laced and old

from my days of crayon.

Dancing on paper,

a ballet of the pen,

waltz of the poet.

And I am

Stuck in this body I call my own.

I am not wontedly gorgeous by eye.

My body, she aches and longs for

the strength in dancers' legs,

the perfection in voices of human sirens,

the mesmeric faces of real "dolls",

provocative nature of ladies.

But my meek lips cannot say this.

I only have eyes, which cannot even see alone.

My eyes

that are colored

"Sunlight on brown velvet."

They are my only mortal beauty.

I am

lonely.

But I do not assail this burden.

It shakes me, but I still me

By hoping that someday,

Someone…

Someone will have me.

They will have me like the flame has the moth.

They will discern me

And not shun me.

They will see me as esoteric and lovely.

I am not

A jejune seedling,

But a lavish, strange

orchid.

I sprout from a web of divergent flowers.

I am an alchemist's blossom.

I extend my hand shyly to the young.

Smiles and laughs,

Jaunty tosses of little faces they give me.

They embrace me when I have

my back turned.

And I love them so.

I am someone's dear love.

I am ready.

I am ready to leave this "me",

this "I"

behind.

Puppet, marionette no more to

My archaic disposition.

I am ready.

The Greek point behind them to see the future,

and I am forced to look, searching. Dreaming.

Am I dreaming…

Of who I shall want to be?

I am ready.