Riot on an empty street

The blood flows on a constance-

Through my veins, through my vulva,

Down to the core of a jumpy heart

That recognizes the voice

You have identified as yourself.

Please take everything but my body,

Because it is what I cannot bear

To turn to pieces.

Your organs are so beautiful,

My fingers light up with

The mere thought of a possibilty

Of holding you between the warmth

Of my body heat.

My words make no sense

But I know I cannot stop to think,

The pen needs to flow without

Any premeditated phrases-

Anything that is formed with

Unspontaneous characteristics

Cannot be as real as a glance

On the street or the miss of

A step on the concrete.

My handwriting is unbearable but

If this pen decides to move

On a meloncholy pace, I might lose

Whatever talent I have or attempt

To posess.

Because talent is nothing but the

Equivalence of ego and a small Sip of beer.

I am not what my potential can reach,

but at this point, my farthest and highest reach

Has pivoted to down below Instead of up in the skies.

I have become afraid of succeeding

That I let my creations slip below,

And reach under my feet so I can

Step on them with each walk I take.

It is my own form of self mutilation,

Self depreciation- I cannot bear

To be proud of myself or accept the acceptance of others

because I do not know what I am-

So I cannot let others know, as well

No words, adjectives or assumptions

will ever come close

To who I am or who I want to be

because I will never stop

experimenting.