by Art F. Moran

Created on: May 16, 2009

Who Am I?

I am no more a poet, nor artist, than I am a no-bull truth. I am a spoof, aloof in a conquest to appease my hungry soul. I am ugly, as the world has labeled me so. I am no more a scientist, then I am fascinated by the ominous mysteries abroad. I am a writer, a smoker, a sinner entwined. I am a 37 year old child inside.

In a moment, I am of mind, body, and soul, whereas, I am constantly challenged, even perplexed to understand why the three cannot get along! I am cynical, and infused with thoughts of anger, and lust. From thoughts of murder to flesh driven euphoria, I am a free-thinker whose mind has been enticed by it all.

I am a student, determined not to stand corrected by teachers whom profess they know it all. I am a believer in a Higher Power, but repulsed by many who abuse the sacred understandings of old. I am conflicted, constricted, and confounded, wadded-up in a fetal position, - scared sh.tless of the abuses I've been inflicted with, without provocation, merit, nor any rational truth abroad.

I am blackened on the outside, when my internal light burns ever bright. Yet, I am black on the inside when I am insulted for having been born white. I am a son, and a father. I am a friend to one, and the enemy to the other over whom I long to devastate, abuse, and devour!

I am imperfect, this much I know. Yet, I am bent on ideals, and seeking all in which my hands may never lay hold. I am living to die, and dying just to live. I am a giver, a taker, and all points between. I am a traveler, alone in a world I do not know, and cannot relate.

I am accepted by one, then denounced of my throne by the other. I am a servant, a follower, a mere laborer of sort. I am afraid to let loose my imagination, my talents, for to do so, than I am sure my passions will be enslaved, tripped up, and imprisoned, but of course. My love is a chore I am lazy to accept, but cannot deny.

I am often fueled by fire, enticed by evil, and at times I am also a product of it's alluring grips. I am forgiving, patient, and tolerant in one hand. Yet, I am completely fed up the next! I am love and hate all balled up into one. I am bent on immortalizing my efforts in time, to leave behind my troubled mind, my sufferings, and all that I've documented for another to find.

I am tired, growing weary, scary, and at times offensive. I am sick of this nightmare, cause my dreams have no end, nor measure, means, or mode should I invest my hope to obtain? I am raped, ravished, beat down,

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