On My Couch

Poet WantedI am what I am. I am what you made me. POET WANTEDwritten lines like written rhymes singing opportunity in my ears. I sift through my experiences, pulling colorful stories from my archival memory, showing you what mine eyes have seen, ears have heard. Orchestrating my music of sound, my compositional opus. POET WANTED; circling ads in the classifiedsattempts at answering my calling, thoughts, that through this, I will be classified; pushing back the tides of formerly being identified as irrelevantoverlooked. Remember this moment, for it has already been etched in the deepest nooks and crannies of my brainfor even I, wont let me forget. I call til you pick up. Question until you answer, answer until you question, knock until it is openedpound until my fist is imprinted on your door, and kick until forensic pathologists can make a mold of my shoe print. I will not be forgotten. You will not look past me. A professional knocker I will be. And !no!, Avon is not calling. Have you listened intently to the sound of prolific knockingknuckles meeting doors only to find that noones home. Auditioning for an audience alonethe fire marshall petitions me to fill the room capacity. Casting couch callsI hang on to my integrity. There will be no selling out. Every No heard, creating more hunger pains. Experiences that are starving man reservedfor they are minesand yours, hersand theirs.