Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

Who Am I? | The Million Dollar and A Billion Poems Worth Question


Who am I?

I am a shapeshifter. A chameleon soul. I change colors and hide myself in plain sight.

I am the water. I am the wood. I am the shadow of the mighty sun, lurking in the hood.

I flow like the river, twisting, turning, but forever onwards, to wherever gravity takes me.

When collected in depressions, I embrace the silence of deep lakes.

When tipping off cliff edges, I become the waterfall, raining down in outrageous beauty.

I am a silver stream in the morning. And a golden ball of water rolling at midday.

I am the lover’s mouth at night. Making love to the ocean, disappearing into its dark delight.

I am the black ink of my pen, as it dances from my heart, onto the pages of this diary.

I am the dance of the ink, matching the rhythms of the river, that is being traced in its words.

I am the source of those rhythms, the radiator, the tuning fork. Head to toe.

That vibrates to the slightest of stimuli. A photograph. A raindrop. A sunrise. A sunset.

I am a whore to the stimuli. Moved by slightest promises of delight, of love, of pleasure divine.

I am a devoted mother nurturing the fantasies these stimuli give birth to within me.

I create words and melodies and paintings and a warm web of love to keep them safe.

I am each strand of that web built with the drying of my spit and sweat and blood and tears.

I am the spider woman building that web with my spit and sweat and blood and tears.

I am the spider baby nesting in the spider woman’s web. I also  know how to take love and care.

Learning the delicate art of balancing, of stucking and un-stucking on the web’s strands, myriad.

I am the glass eyes of watery dreams in the spider baby’s eyes, reflecting the whole universe.

I am the tears that fall when the storm comes. Tears of fear, of loss and great disillusion.

I am the storm, collecting all the webs of the world, swallowing them up to vomit out in disgust.

I am the disgust, the churning stomach, the exulted river that leaves the mouth in reflex.

I am the silence. The numb depths of despair where rest these rivers of forgotten filth.

I am the resting dove of pure white feathers, walking the mountains of filthy death.

I am the egg created on this filth, in a nested web, out of love, and exaltedness.

I am the little paws clawing at the hard egg shell. I am the strong will of the little one inside.

I am the promising beauty of the universe that dares welcome the little one into the filth without.

I am the quivering pulsating will of life. I am the creation song, urging breaths of wistful air into it.

I am the unforgiving unrelenting unasked for and unwelcome plight of death.

I am the beginning, the end and everything in between.

I am the morning that follows the night that follows the morning that follows the night.

I am one. I am all. And one again. I am everything.

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