People identify themselves by what they see, and who they are near.

I must be violent, coarse and rugged,

I must be angry, broke and thuggish, 

I can't be forgiving let alone loving. 

It is reminiscent of a day of a fonder color. I am dark green benches and St. Nick Park. If I am poor am I rich of thought? If I was hungry, why do they glorify starving oneself with no food for thought? Or maybe I'm literal.

If this is text, who will listen? If I screamed what was written would I mention that maybe... Just maybe... this poem isn't for you to hear and identify, but for me? 

I must be bleeding, screaming and lost,

I must be tossing, turning and hot from the nightmares and tight stares; I'm just grinding my teeth. 

Maybe I am studying this field in hopes to ascertain the reason why I started hungry and I chose willingly to stay that way. Maybe this is just the rant of an obsessive; one who eats his rice white because condiments are for those who can afford them. Dreaming was always a luxury of children...

So then I am a child.

I am loud, moving and wild,

I am parts, whole, and sound, 

I am only whoever I have always wanted to be; a person without a ceiling. But if there's no roof, there's no shelter. I am a handy man? Who knows. I'm just a student who talks quiet and plays shows, but maybe this construct of a future would be a little more sturdy with some food for thought, a family, and a roof. 

But I guess I am just a student.

No, wait, human.

No, wait, useless.

Because when you've never had the money to educate yourself, you make the payments by moving. And if movement could make music I guess I'm the kinetic energy buried deep off in my mind wrapped around a treble clef and a microphone. I got it. 

I'm just another homeless kid, searching for home.