Poetry With Hart

I don’t know
who I am
so please,

Forgive my voice
I can’t control which one
of the three

I will use today
it alters, changes shape
I often dissociate

lose time even
in the middle of a rhyme
I don’t know who I am

the post it note poet
manic pixie poly, everyone’s my family
Mary Poppins protester punk, or perhaps

the Bizagoth home-sapio-sexual
cerebral cortex overload
narrative writing on spreadsheets
on spreadsheets, on spreadsheets
haunted child of madness and neglect,

or the me I miss the most
the barefoot hippie, owner of nothing
who says even less

she likes to hang poetry
on clothesline naked as sin
mud cracking on her skin
and gift them daily
in haiku forms to friends.

She loves the world
passionately unconditionally, unequivocally
but ultimately loyal to her mate till the end

her voice lilts
hints of Britain, Boston smitten
with a dash of the south

also known as a
heaping helping of marble mouth
asking forgive my voice

forgive the flood of words
I’m only now learning how to use again
after decades of underuse.

I don’t know who I am
and I’m afraid for what comes next.