I am the Dancing On-Call Poetitorian

I am a blur of contradictions,
a jukebox spinning chaos and truth.
My sneakers squeak on the linoleum of life,
stepping to rhythms only I can hear—
a heartbeat drummed out in metaphor
and caffeinated resolve.

I keep a pen tucked in my back pocket,
its ink always half-empty,
its purpose always half-formed.
Words bleed through my fingers,
staining everything I touch—
napkins, café tables, and the edges of my own skin.
My thoughts pirouette,
wild and relentless,
a choreography of fragments stitched together
by the frantic hum of “what if?”

I am always on-call,
answering emergencies of the soul.
A siren wails; I arrive with verses—
sometimes shaky, sometimes sharp,
always ready to press language against wounds
that never seem to stop bleeding.

I am the poet in the waiting room,
scribbling confessions while the clock mocks me.
The air smells of antiseptic and
half-forgotten dreams.
But still, I dance,
spinning circles on this stage of contradictions.
Because what else can I do?
Life doesn’t stop for edits or perfect endings,
and I am the kind of fool
who chases closure in broken lines.

I write to heal.
I write to break.
I write to remember the way light falls
through cracks in the ceiling.
Every word is a prayer,
a promise,
a desperate attempt to make sense
of a world that rarely asks to be understood.

I am the dancer,
the writer,
the tender-hearted surgeon stitching meaning
into the fabric of fleeting moments.
And when the music stops,
when the ink runs dry,
when the room goes still—
I’ll still be here.
Spinning.
Scribbling.
Answering the call. Because I am a dancing on-call poetitorian,
and this is the only way I know
how to be alive.