Who Am I

WHO AM I? By Jaquon C. Heath

I think I am a bottle of rum: Jamaican rum.

Smell me before you sip lest you burn your tongue.

Don’t chase me.

I am not soluble, nor am I solvable.

Problematic and voluble, my mouth runs like liquor,

Singed, with a hint of sour: vinegar.

I am living for a better tomorrow,

but yesterdays’ drinking

Helps me distinctly die quicker.

I am vigor. Relentless. Oppressed by—left by—

The dismembered memory—

Remembered, in the re-

Memory of a home once,

Filled with the hearts of those who once loved me.

Drink me: take me in to your chalice.

Sip and be filled.

Now fill me with your knowledge.

Calm my turbulent flesh, and put me in a proper stillness,

Where the dancers spin, on heels of balance…silent…motionlessness.


No chaser.

If you take too much, you can lose your senses.

Your motions controlled by your emotions—tactlessly failing,

Because I am not structure.

But the chaos that the world began in,

Masked in utter destruction and famine—

Poverty, possibly, will be the outcome (the probability)

If you underestimate the proof of your tendency and instability.

Ingenious, but no ingenuity…

Fluent, but no fluency…

Living, but not alive! Free, but not freed!




Left to lie in lies!

Surrounded by flies in a place where the alate being can not fly.

Who am I?

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