Little Book of Poems

This is Me

If you walk down Sunny Side Street, slowly

You'll come to a brick house, dull and lowly. 

And if you keep walking for a few blocks- just three

You'll come to a park, open and free.

Sitting on the bench under that huge tree

is a figure that you'll be able to see. 

This is me. 

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 The one with tanned skin and bangs hiding my face

Looking for a smile? On my bitten lips? Not a trace.

My attempt at conversation is just a disgrace,

and my distant demeanor makes me seem out of place. 

But whatever- I go at my own pace. 

I've got thoughts to crush and dreams to chase. 

This is me. 

I sit here often- sometimes after a jog-

instead of stretching. So later my joints creak and croak like frogs

as I walk back home to work on the inversions of logs,

but not before taking a shower to clean my mind of adrenaline fog.

The shower water will grease every rusty old cog

in my head and I shake myself out like a dog. 

This is me. 

In that brick house, dull and lowly I sleep

and out of me there's not a single peep.

 I twitch and sigh in dreams dark and deep,

in a land where past voices talk and shadows creep.

And in the morning, I wake up at six for class and because it's so early- I weep.

And I grumble as I wait for my tea to steep.

This is me.

My brother won't drive me, instead I walk.

Shuffling down the halls, to no one I talk.

Except for the people on track and math team- they won't balk

at the idea of chatting with me. Teacher will wipe his hands free of chalk

and I thank the god-forsaken clock

and leave that place at a speed which would make a bystander gawk.

This is me.

 No practice, I get home as fast as I can.

That's when I see the moving van, 

and I groan internally. "New people?" I'm not a fan. 

"Why hello there, young man!"

I turn and I wave awkwardly, my face tight and wan

A lady smiles and waves back, in her hand she clutches a new frying pan.

This is me.