Me

I wish you to know
this is not what I want.
I'll strip down for you 
and unravel my thoughts.

Vernacular imprinted,
so I peel back each cloth.
Down past the skin,
to my spirit, a moth.

My soul, it pours,
to the paper and down.
Screaming in warning,
without an utterance or sound.

You will not see me.
Not even my face.
While you read every word
at an uneasy pace.

Take it slow.
Let it heal.
My subject:
it is all very real.

I write just for me.
Not for show.
The pen, my ally
offers a place to stow.

Tattooed to my essence,
it is not what it seems.
Tangled in the web
now falling from the beams.

Mangled are my thoughts
as I exhale them out.
Seeping into the page
with every emotional bout.

I wish these to stand
as a reflection of me.
oozing to the page
with mirror to humanity.