Finding myself - creating myself?

Arts of sorts are not my thing
Rhythm and rhyme enough to sing
Or lines and color appealing and pretty
Or even ballads, clever and witty.
We live in such a wonderful time
Where people have expressions of their own design

Engineers of cog and wheel
Shape the world with iron and steel
The artists- pens, paints, and chords
Mightier than armies, mightier than swords
The lovers all have different styles
All swimming in a sea of smiles

So where am I in this place?
I have no feature, have no face
In the gallery of time and space
Mine is empty, my story – erased.

I do have some originality
But everyone has personality
I am a line-walker
A smooth talker
A jack-of-all trades but master of none
A gravedigger for the unfortunate one
I’ll bury the fathers then bury the son
Give me some spades and I’ll get it done
At night I gander with the bottle
One hand on her hip and the other on throttle
I raise high on the off-suite hand
And I’m ready to run when things don’t go as planned.
Sometimes I’m a problem fixer
Other times a turncoat trickster.
Deep at heart – a closet poet
An amateur writer who doesn’t know it.
I can love with all my heart
It’s hard to show it and tears me apart.

Am I branded with the sake of my name?
They were so righteous; can I not be the same?
John never left the thorny crown
Peter was vilified from every side
Then crucified
Upside down.

And if I choose another fate
A persona that I create?
The man I always want to be
Yet I can’t find him inside of me
The more I search, the less I see.
Is Skinner just my fantasy?

John Peter and he share that crutch.
My fortunes haven’t improved much.

By: John Peter “Skinner”