At The Corner Of My Eye

Inspireant

I am, a skateboarder. Makes sense I draw a crowd,
For better or worse I have people who,
Gather to watch the discourse,
Between me and my skateboard.
Off them, I draw, like a vampire of the mind,
Inspireant, of a kind.

The kind that has one talking at length,
About eyebrows, jawlines, other odds and ends.
But what then, those on the receiving end.
My friends as I like to call them,
Contain a healthy dose of those of poetic trend.
What then, do they see, in my weird wanton dance,
Or even at the end of the last twirl's arc.

I read something, this recent day,
About a beautiful man on the metro railway.
The poet, an inspireant of mine herself,
For her I have written, rewritten and disregarded.
She is far removed, from my world of memorabilia,
Yet her description was eeriely familiar.

The man she spoke about, was not me.
Though when I read it I swore it could be.
My beard is now modest,
The scar under my brow has nearly healed.
That day I wore a French braid,
My shirt, was as pale as was essayed.
But I hadn't felt blue in ages.
My present features, the description repealed.

The me she described was not me.
But it was, at some day.
When there were knives at my waist,
Smoke on my lips and syringes at my fingertips.
It was the swordsman I had defeated,
By throwing my arms around him as he threw his blood-flecked blade.
It was the junkie I had rehabilitated.
With nothing but my guitar's reckless serenades.
It was the me, that could be.
Could have been.

But thank my lucky stars, never is.