Am I one? (For asking)
I yearn like sweat on a laborer to make myself
to know that which I do not,
To express the color of my blood and thoughts.
I am consumed suddenly with the desire
to make people in every age know me
so well that questions will never be asked,
To spill out onto receptive mediums,
a million instantaneously coursing musings,
Which all sparkle with shocking lucidity and tantalizing candor.
Instead, I grip the haft of a plastic pencil,
Hoping in anguished desperation,
That I sound not like a demented braying ass.
Do I make myself clear?