I am a recovering pessimist,

Se​asoned 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.