zach moll

21 and who?

21 years old and who the hell am I?
A father
A louche,
A lousy fuck,
An oblivious hypocrite,
Constantly scouting for a prod
Or poke to lose myself in,

A tragedy
A rookie,
A sub par movie,
Am I an echoing canyon
Or the cliffs along the sides,
Who decides?
And how could it possibly matter,
Why does it
And who the hell am I?
21 years old and who the hell am I?
Or you?
But concentrated nothingness
Beaming with luck,
Who am I but hands to work with,
A friend to lose touch with
An obituary to be,
Summed up in a hundred words,

Who the hell am I?
21 years old and who the hell am I?
But tired eyes and a shaky voice too bleak,
A placard wielding bum too witty for his plight
And cold street nights of a shrugging city,
Who the hell am I?
But a series of errands
A stack of bills,
A nine digit reference number,
Who the hell am I?
21 years old and who the hell am I?
But a slightly taller child
Going to a different school
Playing different games,
Antagonized with interest,
Spouting fevered claims,

Who the hell am I
But a long lost lover
You’d rather not run into,
The soiled sheets you’d rather not sleep with
A dusty old pillow case that
Stuffs up your head,
Who the hell am I?
21 years old and who the hell am I?
But a love letter from oblivion
A suitcase by the door,
A microcosm of ‘It’,
Who the hell am I
But a question mark
Among exclamation points,
The left over gravy given to the dog,
A rain drop in July,
Who am I but opinions, thoughts
And diction,
A preference, a suspicion,
An intimidated witness,
Who the hell am I
But a mirror of existence?