sjsprWriting

I’m not that abstract.

I’m not that “undefined.”

I like boisterous, rhythmic music and a tangible fluency in my sentences.

I generally don’t like writing poems,

Or,

Writing things about myself.

.

.

.

This is awkward.

My favorite things are making people smile,

And,

Catching myself mid-smile,

Thinking,

“Hey, there’s this thing on my face. Please proceed.”

My life doesn’t have any meter,

So,

Neither should this poem.

(Just in case you’re wondering what’s happening right now.)

People staring at me makes me uncomfortable.

I guess I’m too popular.

JKJKJKJKJKJKJKJKJKJKJKJKKJKJKJKJKJK

Hold on, like, five seconds.

This is my favorite part of the song, and it’s pretty fucking good.

It needs to be appreciated.

.

.

.

.

.

Okay, we’re good.

Holla back for stream-of-consciousness. Chaaaaaaa.

I didn’t see that coming as I started this poem, but, you know, innovation,

Or,

Whatever.

Which brings me to some of my favorite phrases such as:

Whatever

And,

Twist-fucking-ending.

(The context for the latter will always be one of the funniest moments I remember in my life.)

Am I writing this correctly?

Like, it’s about me,

Right?

It’s not even a poem anymore.

No, not really.

Here’s something for you to grasp on to:

My existence is my identity,

And.

That.

Changes.

All the time.

My identity is who I am right now.

Not two seconds ago.

And,

Not what I’ll be in ten years.

Right now.

(Somewhere, a Claudia Roldan is reading “Right now” and hyperventilating.)

Some things I like about me:

I don’t try to be anything else but myself.

Some things I may not like about me:

I’m the greatest writer to ever live. I win any Oscar possible for a multitude of films. I live a variety of long, fulfilling lives with the people I love. I go out and change the world over and over again.  

And then,

I get out of my bed (maybe); so complacent I don’t know how I was not, in fact, collecting rust.

But,

Whatever.

P.S.

I think I’m very happy.