Paradox

I am a paradox with skin and bones.

The Sleeping Repunzel you pass in the hall way.

I am the one who soaks up all your words and stores them in the slimy compartments of my mind till you need them again for later use.

I feed myself with plants and hope.

My ears have heard more words then my mouth has ever uttered.

A simple cynic who yet searches within the book stacks for another Holden Caulfield.

You can grasp onto these skin and bones and try to dissect me but under myself you will only find a whirlwind of contradictions.

The dripping drops of my words will linger in the air around you because I dare not say more than my quota allows.

Hope or hopeless is the question you ask and neither is the answer you will get from me.

I am a mixture of things, from the tear you don’t shed in fear of looking weak, to the soggy welcome mat you wipe your feet on when you walk into your warm loving home.

I am little to nothing compared to the empty coke bottle you left on the floor this morning, but goddammit I am everything you see when you look into a kaleidoscope.

I am flawless in all of my flawed ways.

This poem is about: 
Me

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