You ask me who I am, and I struggle for ways to put it into sentences, short enough to not get tuned out. I shut down. I have been here since the first screened typewriter, scribing. I have created data bases of situations, books of my own creation, poetry, music and art. I ask, who are you?
Why must I repeat in short sentences years of tears and torn pens, aching and re-aching. I give it away for the frayed, broken hearts just looking to feel their Otherkin; waiting for someone to say, I read you. I get you.
I outpour because I overflow with the insensible ingesting, and so I am always recycling energy into words, stored in images and cryptic, rhyming lines.
The ones who hold the strings to me are the ones who understand everything, and even if it’s few, even its it you, dive in, then when you’ve reached the end, if you still have questions, I will drip you softly with the color of my answers.