why can't i be me?

rag and bone- dog-and bone-hank of hair- lady fair.

[you asked for this one. It was bound to happen, sooner or later]

i don't want to be another t.s. eliot or virginia woolf sliding to her death with stones in her pockets. i don't want to be as one with the cowslips, reading or reciting poetry to a bovine audience, or stick my head in the gas either. i don't want to drink off the hippocrene and lull myself into escape, and writes odes to dejection and melancholy. at times, i sdon't even want to write a blazon to your eyebrows (heavenly though they might be).

i dont want to be daddy's lil gal sucking the life blood out of him as slowly as if it were my favorite sucker. i don't want to be your doormat and meekly do as you want either.

what do i want? i don't know. there- its out in the open. yeah i don't know what the hell i want to do in a year's time or five year's time or even what i'll wear to work tomorrow (i might be tempted to shave my legs and wear a skirt- but then again, i might not and hide the peach fuzz somehow).

don't browbeat me. i won't put up with it for too long.

i don't want to lose the I that I've been for 24 plus years because of an 'us' that may never be.