"I"

I am a sun soaked body with my arms stretched out.

I am a pathetic writer, a super carrot eater.
No rain, no wind, no sun,
Nor summer, or winter or autumn or spring.
Is it what they called no man's land,
and am I here to stay?
I am but a membrane and stretched over the mouth of a drum.
I am not a butterfly rather a crow, most likely an ant.
I am not grammar but parole for sure.
I have a brain of cauliflower and pumpkin,
I have limbs of melted rexine.
I write poetry like Jimmy Porter,
but i think i replicate Wordsworth in his solitary reaper.
Not flesh and blood but thermocol and pastry,
I haven't painted my intestines yet but i have eaten my lunch.
I am not a question, no mystery no illusive nymph.
I am however that answer which leads to no end.
Two feet i have and i can see them through my finger nails,
those feet will walk the miles ahead and the miles that i am already at.
I am but a thought who likes to think she is a human being,
delirious amongst others who will one day realise that teddy bears make up the real world.