On My Couch

Poet Wantedi Amwhat I Am.I Am What You Made Me.Poet Wanted—Written Lineslike Written Rhymessinging Opportunity In My Ears.I Sift Through MyexperiencesPulling Colorful Stories From Myarchival MemoryShowing You What Mine Eyes Have SeenEars Have Heard.Orchestratingmy Music Of SoundMycompositional Opus.Poet Wanted;Circling Ads In The Classifieds—Attempts At Answering My CallingThoughtsThat Through This I Will Be Classified;Pushing Backthe Tides Of Formerly Being Identified Asirrelevant—Overlooked.Remember This MomentFor It Has Already Been Etched In The Deepest Nooksand Crannies Of My Brain—For Even IWon’T Let Me Forget.I Call Til’ You Pick Up.Question Until You AnswerAnswer Until You QuestionKnock Until It Is Opened—Pound Until My Fist Is Imprinted On Your DoorAnd Kickuntil Forensic Pathologists Can Make A Mold Of Myshoe Print.I Will Not Beforgotten.You Will Not Lookpast Me.A Professional Knocker I Will Be.And !No!Avon Is Not Calling.Have You Listened Intently To The Soundof Prolific Knocking—Knuckles Meeting Doors Only To Findthat No’Ones Home.Auditioning For An Audience Alone—The Fire Marshall Petitions Meto Fill The Roomcapacity.Casting Couch Calls—I Hang On Tomy Integrity.There Will Be No Selling Out.Every “No” HeardCreating More Hunger Pains.Experiences That Are Starving Man Reserved…For They Are Mines…And YoursHers…And Theirs.