I am made of

I am made of airborne dust. 

I was a cosmic sneeze at conception.

I used an inborn kleenex until birth.

from then on,

I have been winging it,

clustered in particles gathering.

a constant assemblage 

of ongoing gatherings 

and an influx of dismissals.

everything, as the sum of me,

should be getting on

as randomness, dispersal and chaotic.

thank god, for appearance's sake.

otherwise known as a self that matters.

it's times like these

that I am in the hideout of being human.

it's a place I give my feeling nature a rest.

not happy, 

not satisfied, 

but occupied.

I'd ask for a makeover 

but only as an essence,

would be a must.

matter is too regulated.

form is way overrated. 

I would genuinely prefer to be formless,

as if shape, size, weight 

actually as matter.

just put me on the intercom of the collective

and let our silence appear to reign.

otherwise choice is not an option.

damn, airborne dust,

entered as

and fully willing to relinquish . . .