S. E. S.

Who am I besides flesh shielding stark white bone where 70 percent of me is water and the rest fact or fat, whichever you prefer? Who am I to call myself human, woman, creation, being? What feelings am I left to bear inside? I am me, but who am I to call me, me? Six black birds sit on a wire but how am I to see?
Eighteen years of solid doubt. Solitude is my secret diving into the deep end wanting to resurface with the ring. Teacher, teacher! You never picked me. Obnoxious I was, but cynical I became in return. Driving down a long paved road waiting to be caught for fear flows through me like alcohol because I'm waiting to make the move; the move that blinds the distance between the sane and the not.
Eighteen long drawn out years where the memories are more bitter than sweet, and my eyes more open than wished. Years where mans desire has ravaged my body and soul without remorse; where anger has battered my heart more times than my bat has hit the ball.
Eighteen years of questionable questions which have never been answered because they've never been asked. My body is a bottomless cavern waiting to fill its empty space again. But each of us knows that the only thing to fill this black hole with is silence. Silence is brilliance hiding away. Without the voices, the words, the thoughts we would be nothing more than zombies walking to nowhere starving for attention, creation, dimension.
I'm waiting to be. Still waiting for the answers and facts, but what if they never come? What if I never am? Yet more unanswerable questions, and who are you to steal away the current of my moral sanity? Who are you to steal away the current of my thoughts to place your image over everything? Who are you to shroud me in an unimaginable silence which doesn't speak louder than words? Who are you to turn me into a stranger from myself? Yet, who are you not to? For my love is blind and this love can not see the cliff it fell from. Deep in this solid place of pure emotion is where I wait to one day be dragged out by reality. For reality never feels like E, and this is an acid trip of unimaginable measure because nothing is as it seems. Clouds are not really green.
Yet you, you make me feel as if the world won't stop spinning and soon I may topple off into the heavens surrounding me. I keep watching for angels to pass by, but everytime I look at you I feel as though I'm already there because you may not see it but you've got wings on your shoulders and a halo in your hair.
And words, they fly by like the color spheres I cannot see for I may hear them but they no longer register. I didn't pay the fee. There are unimaginable equivocations in my distant philosophy, but I am still here. I am still free. But we may not be as free as birds for much longer anymore because they're coming to get us and they aren't that far.