I have written often of my inner frustrations.
How I am chewing on constant halves of an unexplored whole.
How unabled I am to figure out who I am
And where I fit
And why I am so constantly agitated,
Bothered without a venue to explode
into tiny pieces of how things should be.

Except for poetry.
It's the one place I can be real.
(Shit, hell, damn, fuck politely excluded)
But what is the real me?
I greatly fear it is only what I portray
and not the millions of moments inside.

Why am I in habitual combat with the Universe?