Who Am I Really?

Who am I really?
A ghost of a child
Cemented in core scrutiny
Until eye socket collapse
And screaming babies curdle.
Who am I really?
A warped black
Plastic cord snaking
From the electrical socket,
Sucking energy dry from the sterile grid.
Who am I really?
A callous hexagonal button,
shaped strange, grey and lifeless.
Just sitting in the dirt
Like a lone beggar,
Dust in my beard;
All tarnished.
Who am I really?
A faulty heart
That spews out nonsense
And freckles the steam cloud
With dangerous pesticides.
Who am I really?
Cold feet, clammy hands, bitten fingernails.
gnarled knuckles, a gashed cheek
multitudes of gruesome grape bruises.
Who am I really?
Chained to the ceiling,
Ducked taped mouth,
Sewn up eyes,
Blind to the world
Of my mind
Inside.
Who am I really?
Not a dark ominous path of dissected trees,
Oozing pink leaves.
Some crinkly old newspapers
Fingers stained with print.
Not a curl of smooth hair
Or a flicker of silver flecks.
Who am I really?
A mirror
Into the future;
A doomsday device.
A pencil empty of lead,
A hollow rubber ducky;
All yellow and quacks
But no final emotion.
Who am I really?
Circling thoughts
Like turkey vultures
Around a dead carcass,
Drowning frogs in salt water
And fuzzy squirrels under tires.