I’m not the blossoms you have planted inside my psyche.
I’m not the poems I write in the midst of nights.
I’m not the blackberry winter tarnishing one’s soul.
I’m not the sand on the borderlines of the shores.
I’m what have watered these blossoms to turn out that beautiful.
I’m the poems I scribble down in the midst of morns when I’m not so delightful.
I’m autumnal equinox that blemishes one’s face.
I’m the seas themselves; and the fish people chase.
I’m not a pottery mannequin that holds her ego up high when she plods through life.
I’m not the one people strive.
I’m not the coffee beans laying inside my jazzy coffee jar.
I’m not the center of the universe; neither you are.
I’m a scar-full human being that put hold on her egotistic self when she rises her hand waiting for help.
I’m the one who strive for her past-self.
I’m the caffeine molecules swimming in space that make up the coffee beans themselves.
I’m the entire macrocosm;
This is the shining of my poetic egotistic self.