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I am easily inspired,
but hardly ever productive.
I am innocense lost.
I am forgotten love.
I am hidden thoughts,
lustful flings,
cringing screams.
I am too young.
I feel I am too old.
I am never last,
never first,
but somewhere caught in the middle.
I am a dreamer's sky,
a painter's sketch.
I am not the final product,
nor the evolutionary experiment.
I am a hypothesis.
I am not sticks and stones,
but curves and crashing waves.
I am not a girly girl.
I am not your football player either.
I am not society's finest,
and never will I be white trash, plain as that.
I am untamed creativity,
unharnessed love,
unseen passion.
I will never be you.
It's hard enough just to be me.
8/9/01
