I am not the man in the mirror
I am not the face looking back
I am not the PBR can in my hand
I am not the fleeing cocks when the pigs sniff out the barn
I am not the bro equalizing my face with sunglasses in the sun, in the shade, in
      the mall, in the yellow starry explosion at the end of the tunnel
I am not a Greek storming the walls of troy
I am not a Trojan horse that bursts the white snow of innocence and pillages and
      spills the numbing red plastic cup onto the crown of thorns
I am not the dizzy wolf who howls at the unreachable moon
I am not the hollow-eyed body snatcher who stumbles onto the cool pavement in
      the dark, in the rhythm, in the stall, in the echoing blackness of the tired
      night
I am not an obscure mystery
I am not the battalion who storm into enemy lines shooting peace and freedom
      into different opinions
I am not a man who will cheat on a woman
I am not the fish stuck in a fish tank
I am an aching hand writing furiously while the snow falls and the darkness
      thickens in my mind, in the corners of my room, in the tunnel, and in the
      mirror.