Ranting

My three month stint
As a self exiled street
Urchin wandering the
Streets begging the gods
For better muses was
Not so fruitful as I had
Hoped...
But, when you start
With nothing and end
The same what do you
Have to lose?...
But a bit more of the
Mind you try your damdest
To drink away because
The romanticized illusions
You prefer no longer exist
Outside of the countless
Books you read growing up
On nevermore farm ...
Where hugs for breakfast
And fists for desert created
This...very odd little twerp
Of a thing fascinated with
Characters...

I wish I could be everyone
Sometimes..
Every good, bad, pretty, ugly,
Normal, fucked up bastard
of a wellbred person,
But I can't even be myselves
Haha-!

If my life were a novel
It would end in a Steinbeck
Cliffhanger with me crashing
Madly in the waves looking
For my poor lost heirloom
I should've passed on..
But my stormy heart  knows
Only the winter of discontent
To the exclusion of any of
Season...
And..is there a reason?
Cause and effect explain
How's but the why that
Eludes me keeps me here..
Searching..
Modifying my
...character.

(Since I fear to
Be the author of
My ending.)