It is a terrible thing, being a poet.
I find myself being in place of the dead, the cheater, the nectar and its lover.
My soul is not one, but an inter-dimensional shape that is constantly changing forms.
I am all at once a man and a woman. I have no gender. I am a flower, the fly.
My mind is enraging and pure and it teeters to hell but is scared of heaven.
I know not what I want, but I know everything about my caricature; its facial features,
their sensuality. We talk to each other. They talk to me. I have no words.
I am an applicant with no face, no lips.
My romanticism is lifeless whereas my eroticism thrives.
If I had been god I would have been a poor one.