I am a recovering pessimist,
Seasoned with jadedness,
Topped off with some obnoxious realism.
My first language is sarcasm
I am well versed in profanity
I am a maker of things
And lay my trust in explanations.
I like my coffee black,
And my whiskey in my belly.
I live in the Whedonverse.
Harnessed by the bindings of a thousand books
Melodies move my every thought
And tone is my choice of weapon.
Give me a 4x4 and four directions
One flatbed and two high heels
I like jeans and swings
The smell of coffee beans.
I hate to hurt
And I often talk with trees.
I live in the places in-between
For displacement is my constant.
But all of this is gathered
Into a pulse of perseverance.
It's beat gives rhythm to my laughter
For these are the things I carry
And these things carry me.
And the massive wonder of the cosmos does not deter me
For I share particles with stars.