Ambition

I am the woman.

I am the complusive woman,

not the lying woman,

the lying-on-the-bed woman.

The lying-where-you-left-me woman.

 

I am the feminsit woman.

The woman of insignificant self-importance-

I am the amtter woman,

the atom woman.

The ATGC deoxyribose woman-

I am the model woman.

The evolutionary- no;

the revolutionary woman.

 

I am the woman.

The woman from across the road that you thought you saw,

but didn't.

 

I am not the woman,

but I am a woman.

And if there are 3.5 billion of us,

than I am sure as hell going to matter.

 

I am that woman.

The loud woman,

the writer girl.

I am the spiral notebook, pen-in-hand,

impressionist woman.

I leave an impression.

On this ground, on this earth.

I'm going to leave one on you.

 

I am the clever woman.

I am the you-can’t-stop-me,

only-I-can-stop-me woman,

And I might.

Maybe.

Who knows?

Not you.

 

Because I am the mysterious woman.

The hide-in-plain-sight woman,

the relish me,

the flourish girl.

 

I am the unfinished Houdini act,

the disappearing woman,

the only-here-for-a-moment woman.

 

Don’t miss it- I might change.

In fact, I will change.

I’ll be the soft girl,

the open-book girl-

but not now.

 

In this moment, in this woom,

I am the “loud, proud, chemical combination, I’ve been everywhere, I know me, you don’t and that’s something” woman.

The “I-am-most-certainly-going-to-be-someone” woman.

 

I am not the woman.

I am a girl.

But no, I am not just a woman, not jost a girl, not a thousand miles of nucleic acids, not a picture, not a thought, not a worn out tale with a broken spine;

right here, right now,

I am an ambition.

So don’t blink.

 

Because I am not the lying woman,

I am the compulsive woman.

I am the woman.

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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