(ok, this isn't really a poem. it's not really a story either. it's kind of part of a series of.... babble.)
At 21 there was no problem with me being me, I, was all there should be and addictions would come in forms of prose and praise and grandness on levels of scholars and poets and I was not I but me under the sheets. The light would cut itself when the curtains would close and doors would lock, nerves twitching to the sound of the mickey mouse clock sitting on the nightstand, writhing through deteriorating vertebrae. At 21 there was no problem with me being me and I was all there should be for being young and proper and convenient like the bottle opener nesting with the argyle socks in drawer number three rubbing elbows with the velvet pouch. Seemed so innocent nestling there with the argyle socks and the doors locked and the curtains drawn because when the light is turned out then there is nothing here to see. Well that handkerchief inside the velvet pouch was my mummas and was certain it liked rubbing against the velvet of the pouch and made friends with the diamonds on the socks feared the stiffness of the opener but despite it all protected its small fetus with all care, the handkerchief and the velvet pouch who’s only meaning in life was to protect that miniature glass fetus that would make me me for one more day so when the lights turned up there she stood a proper scholar and a budding poet with rays of light emitting from the tips of her fingers and the tips of her toes. At 21 there was no problem with being me or I or the one behind the drawn curtains running running through fields of poppies toward that golden tower of light, there was no problem being me, or I or that one running running on water, under water, swimming through pathetic schools of fish and scum and there was no problem with me, they let me eat cake. Well ashes, ashes, they’ll all come down.