Since a child

I have often wondered past

and asked the great silent nothing and nobody

why most whom

I most concern myself

to see me for me

could only see the version furthest from what I want to be.

I live day to day

swatting angels from the sky

and cursing devils

"fuck you, find someone else to come out and play"

You see I condemned neither,

as if I actually could,

and faulted none for being that which they are;

simply I could not suffer their compulsive need for influence.

I wanted to be my me,

faulted and ignorant,

angry and self righteous-

me.

But some could not allow that irritation to be.

At eight my school evaluated me for "gifted"

and the man said "He's smart

but lacks imagination, I can't see him ever being creative"

and all I could think was

what does he mean lacks imagination?

I imagine the world every day,

creating one improvement at a time

until it's perfect,

I just don't speak it,

so you don't see it.

Children step softly,

so softly they stomp,

ant hills and mole hills,

and psyches they don't want.

Adults are no better,

walking where ever

careless of those underfoot.

Gifted - where they put kids

they don't know what to do with.

Some called us smart,

mostly adults,

most called us weird, strange,

different,

geek, dork, nerd.

The list gets tiresome

and it's their sloppy definition of me

which is more bothersome than painful

because I have long been blessed

with the arrogance

of stereotypes are too two dimensional

to surround me.

Only specific insults

were pointed enough to prick

my definition of

the me I know,

and try to love.

The sticks and stones metaphor

doesn't make sense to me any more

and I can't say that it ever really did.

You tell me what kid

believes those words

as they're shouted

as hopeful armor

in the face of succumbing to a them

they didn't choose,

that they abhor,

and they simply don't want to be anyone

anymore.

But at eight I didn't truly know me

any more than I did when I was eighteen

and my boss gave me a graduation present-

"The Highly Selective Dictionary for the Extraordinarily Literate"

and I thought-

Ha! They finally get it,

get me the real-

then I opened the cover,

saw a personal inscription

only to discover that the real me of me

was more distant than ever.

It read "for when you finally write that manifesto"

with all connotations intentional.

And I thought " you assholes,

that will never be me"

forgetting to use the prodigious language

I held in my hands,

but sometimes simple is best,

and it fit,

and I quit.

I fit sidewalk puzzle cracks

only if they zig zag crooked,

and my foot path tracks back

to foot prints tracked backwards;

walking blindly,

or not needing to see.

Where I'm going is forward,

forever,

onward is the slogan shouted over the sled team

of mushing past mes.

Evolution of self isn't some grand idea with a plan,

its a daily demand,

unavoidable,

unobtainable on command.