My Barbaric Yawp – Who I Am – On Throwback Thursday

Seeing as it Thursday, and the current trend is to throw up stuff from the past, I thought I would share a piece of work I had to do for a creative writing class back in college. I’ve tweaked it slightly to be more appropriate to my current situation, but 97% of it is the same. Walt Whitman would call this a Barbaric Yawp – and it’s as close to poetry as you’ll see me write. I can’t write poetry.

I am an old tattered book, ripping at the seams, split down the spine, frayed pages and fading text.
Years of neglect, not use, have dulled my words, my wisdom, my messages of hope, of love, of despair, of hate, of shyness and of lust.
I am a choose your own adventure book, be careful not to cheat and change your choices. Fate, can be fickle, me even more so.
I am wise like Encyclopedia Brown, gifted beyond my years. But my years caught up with me, and I need more beyond gifts.
I am the Dictionary of Trivial Knowledge, which serves me well at parties and for radio contests, but not much else.
I can revel you with song lyrics, movie titles, and tidbits needless and unwarranted, but the unwarranted and needless are key to the knowledge.
I am lying around your house, always there, usually out of sight.
I am that letter you cannot find, that missing change in your cushions, your favourite mug that has disappeared. I am there, but I am not.
I am that bar of chocolate you know you can’t have. I am sweet to taste, the perfect substitute for sex, but wrong for so many reasons.
I am the granola bar you choose; with chocolate sprinkles or chips, a wise choice with a side order of sin. And sin is in order.
I am that bottle on the top of your shelf, tucked behind the others, gathering dust.
The bottle you want to grab, to sample, to immerse yourself in completely.
But you fear, deep down, that the contents might be addictive, might make you lose your senses, your inhibitions, your self-control and reliance.
I am the private chef you need, the cleaner you desire, the calming influence when all is a storm.
I am the whore you’d love to be, the lover who obeys, the dimpled devil with the piercing eyes and the wherewithal to know what he wants.
I am these things, and more, if that is your wish.
I am that whisper you hear in the night, unsure whether I’m coming or going.
I am the bump that worries you, the baying canine that shivers you, the gentle rain that soothes you.
I am the lightening that sends you under the covers, the crashing limbs from the nearby tree.
I am the blue sky that follows every storm.
I am the gossip you can’t live without, the dirty little secret that wets your appetite and your panties.
I am the daily news that clutters your mind, so you can talk to your friends, your families, your lovers, your husbands.
I am the laughter that fills the room, your head, the very thoughts of yesterday.
From the grey outside, to the dull inside, the laughter will resonate and echo through you, around you, maybe even about you.
I am the smile on your lips, while basking in my own sorrow.
I am the entertainment in the bar, the lounge, the pub where you come for a drink with your friends.
I am the infectious smile you can’t seem to shake, the glowing glance that makes you shake, and infects your smile.
I am the quiet guy in the corner, avoiding your stare, reveling in solitude and tranquil ambience while others around me juggle hectic hassle and verbiage.
I am the one you want to approach, but are leery of my muted strength, my strange desire to be alone, my obvious comfort in silence amid chaos.
I am this, you see, to all who see me. I am this, and more, to all those who know me, who like me, who hate, who loathe me, who love me, who worship me.
I am not easily judged, and do not judge easily. I am there to be viewed, to be talked to, to be befriended, amongst you, standing on my shattered pedestal.
I am the friend you would love, the lover who would be your best friend.
I am the jump in your step, the thorn in your side, the swagger in your attitude, and the doubt you want to curse.
I am this to you, but to me, am I this to you? I know not what I am, what I should be, how to be what I should be.
I am not proud or upset with what I am. I am not frustrated or elated by what I’ve become.
I am not who I thought I would be. Nor am I who I don’t want to be.
I am a work in progress. I am putty; still to be molded by the one meant to mold me to perfection.
I am learning and growing, content with my growth and all I have learned.
I am happy where I am, where I am going, and where I have come from.
I am hard to define, in the purest sense, and my definition would baffle all.
I am here, along for the ride, taking it all in strides. Honestly, I am me.
Yes, I am me. Proudly, I am me.

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