Anti-Hero

I’m totally interested in what you think I am. And that goes for most of us. We want to know who we are to someone else. But to myself, who am I? What am I? What pieces of elements in some twisted chemistry and bonds comprise this guys design and make up?

Well. I’m a monolith for one. Carved from one single piece called passion, putting that fire into everything I do, it’s greater than anything you can imagine. Because imagine the passiveness of letting nothing ever happen. That madness will drive me towards blackness. The action that I take will drastically change the sadness to gladness.

I’m balanced on two feet. A feature that propels this future teacher and speaker back and forth because I’ll be an active professor, and not one of my lectures will feel prosthetic like dentures. But I venture to have my students go out and have an adventure: take a real bite out of life. I’m not teaching them to cut, I’m only giving them the forks and the knives.

My pair of legs, lanky and skimpy, pillars that are adorned with tight fabric because, well, it looks good. The muscles that flex and turn with ever step, right and then left and what’s left is the best adept strut that shows off my confidence and of course my cute ass Asian butt. Redundant.

Hip bones that keep me framed like the piece of work I am, I’ve got a slight V that if I tip over slightly, you’ll see that I’m greater than he.

They call it a rib cage cause my heart cannot be stopped, only contained. Because this guy is hardcore even when chained. Bruised like a suicidal peach, cut like it’s a wrap, scarred like Mufasa’s evil brother and battered like some fish with of course a couple chips. But it throbs with rhythm because it is my internal drummer, the inner system, that kicks and keeps me going, and going, and going. Just listen.

My chest opens up easily and reveals my heart for you. A flat landscape, so it’s kind of like a board and is pretty easy to screw.

Shoulders that are tired from the weight of the world and my head, but they’re never wishing for a lighter load, just some more conditioning and strengthening instead. The shoulders obviously shoulder my cause.

Two arms, slim and crafted with careful contours and subtle curves: they aren’t blasted. There’s not a lot to gander at but they have the tenacity of a boxer’s: so getting in my arm’s way is getting in harm’s way.

The hands that write with the right to write, they write passages without a passage of rite.

My neck, protect, like the Wu-Tang, so I’m never in danger. My head and mind is constructed because I am the motherfucker that built the 36 chambers and THEN SOME.

Black flippy hair before Bieber copied. With maybe a common Joe’s face but dude, I am not sloppy.

I’m not that short but you will look down at me but that’s only because you’re viewing from the balcony.

And honestly, my honesty will never be obsolete. I am what I am: everything I want to be.