This Is Only My False Identity Poem by Patti Masterman

This is only my false identity; my real one
Is in an alternate universe, but I’ve forgotten where.
I write swindle poetry, in over priced restaurants
Where I am known for emptying the coffee pot
And never ordering a real meal.

I have never heard doves cooing inside my heart,
Have never been at the point of a dagger-
Never even near the point of a gun,

Not one has loved me unto death,
In fact, they loved telling me how expendable I was.
I slowly wear on people's nerves
Like an undiagnosed breakout of some disease.

It's all a fool's game of made up rules,
I'm not a world class spy of human nature:
I’m not even a bonafide psychopath
And Poetry doesn't pay my keep;

My poetry is made up of small word lies
Moved around on magnetic boards;
The prophetess of pablum,
Necromancer of dead words-
My necrophilia is just
Playing with still-born words.

Even the lines in my palms
Are fake. I use a thesaurus
I sleep and eat and defecate.
My reflections break mirrors before mid-morning.

I could disappear tomorrow;
In a few weeks time be completely erased.

You can burn these words then-
I think I’d enjoy hearing them screaming for once.