If I were to write a poem, how would it be perceived? Would people really be seeing me? Or just judging how put together I can make my words? Judging me if my tone doesn’t seem to match the sarcastic slap of my mouth when I have a bad day and need someone else to be the butt of a joke. I can be a cactus or a comforter. I can be classy and sophisticated trashy and devastated. I am an intelligent woman and an ignorant infant. I am misunderstood but after a while you have to realize, how can you expect someone to know you when all of your energy is making sure they never do? Pushing so hard against some invisible wall that isn’t there that by the time you remember what you really want you are shaky and hoarse and no one can hear you anymore. Too cold or too hot, loving the chase, never settling down, running away from the right choice, convinced it is wrong until one day you wake up as someone you promised not to be with no one else to blame and nowhere else to look but at me. Those sad, confused and sparkling blue eyes that give me away. Open me up, and let you swim around inside, making me your home until you realize there are empty spaces and misplaced furniture sets, lots of stains and so many regrets. But you asked for it or you didn’t and I am stuck with this pool of choppy waters, never settled for long before a new wave comes and washes out the intricate pattern of focus that takes all of my fight away, light on the breeze, leaving me refreshed but chilled to the bone. Who am I? is the point of existence never to know?