I've found my wishes coming true.
I wished for the chance to have what I lost in L.A.
And the screenwriter came.
I wished for what I gave away.
And I received it parcel post, circles for days.
I sit here now, alone, and wonder what my life means.
I am a liar.
I lie to people every day.
It's a secret I don't want to give away.
I still don't believe this is the truth, I am simply playing the most advantageous part.
I don't think I'll ever be what I want to be.
But I may be missing some pieces.
I like hearing the neighbor blasting tunes.
I like flirting with people on the internet.
But I don't like online dating.
I like being in control and healthy.
I love my mother.
I don't like eating plenty.
I do better on a ration.
I am sick of hearing about eating vegetables.
I am sick of the circle around me.
I prefer to be alone.
Watching my fingers numbly type.
What you may see is against me.
I am against myself.
My mother won't think this poem is lovely.
She'll like the last two best.
But I don't care, because love is in the air.
And I might, I may, one day.
By May I'll be gone, lost, pulled completely into the black hole called Colorado.
And yet, somehow, I am still on a strike.
A hunger strike.
I don't like whatever this is.
I like being poetic when it means I effuse poetry that hits a chord.
Honestly I am as sick of my audience as they are of me.
I know who's reading.
I hate them for it.
And yet revel in my numbers.
I love no one.
I meet people.
I meet my male side.
And I weep...