What I am

What I am

 

I am a collection of pastel colors,

a wrapper hugging tight to a plastic bottle.

I am the fabric on your jeans, the maroon

on your nails. The sweet on your tongue.

Talking in preposterous voices, speaking

with fluent rushes of gold on the pavement

underneath your wristbands and ring pieces.

 

Shots of ice strands in every direction,

shocking metal bullets with a tang

of lightning electricity, breaking muscles

and chewing blood.

 

I am everything tiger and everything rat,

the things your fluid minds can fathom,

and the tunnels under sticks and mud

that they cannot. 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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