I am Frankenstein’s monster—
a tired traveler yearning to break free
from this cage, this lonely overpopulated
world. Here, I stand in a crowded
grocery store listening to people yell and
scream and walk right into me as
if I’m not even there. No apologies,
No turned heads, only an elderly
man sprinting towards the beer
aisle like it was the finish line of a
marathon while I’m left alone on
a dirty floor that hasn't been mopped
since last Tuesday. I guess never leave
a man behind doesn't apply here.

I am Dorian Gray, and while my
body appears young the hidden
portrait hanging in my attic shows
otherwise. Although I may not be
covered with the burdens of sin and
my own selfishness, I am covered
with the wrinkles of disappointment
and hopelessness printed on the front
page of Newsday. Each day I feel
myself grow older inside, and I am
disgusted by the mirror that stands
before me—the way my long hair and
curvy body can land me a job before
they even take a glance at my résumé.
I too have a beautiful mind and soul
to offer the world, but it seems no one
cares to undress that side of me.

I am Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsberg,
Frank O’Hara. I am Emily Dickinson,
and Sylvia Plath too. I am a writer
with a wandering mind and a terrible
sense of direction. I inhale the negative
energy that surrounds me, and hold it
between the spaces of my lungs.
After a few moments, I exhale
and allow the energy to pour out
of me like an overflowing waterfall
after the storm. I can feel each
overwhelming thought escape my
mind and find its way onto the blank
white sheet before me. I see the people
gather around the falls, stepping back
from reality for a few quiet seconds
as I raise a completed verse up to
the sunlight.

Inkblots and all, I have never seen
anything so beautiful.