re-posting because the text wasn't right

I am a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
I wonder if you wonder
What I’m wondering
When I say I am an edible object
I hear what you’re saying.
I see that you think I’m not all there in the head.
Honestly, you’re probably right,
Because I am a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I pretend to pretend,
Because pretending is all I have
In this pretentious world
Full of particular people
As paranoid as pansies getting pounced on by pumas.
And then there’s me, a PB&J.

I feel the two halves  
Of my 100% real peanut butter
And organic Whole Foods strawberry preserves
Come together to become one.
It’s a gooey, entangled mess of dream and reality.

I touch out into the nothingness before me.
Yearning to exist
In a greater entity  
Than one with no sentience.

I worry too much.
I worry about everything.
I worry about the endless amount of peanut butter jars
My mom leaves open on the counter.
I worry about the being  
Of my whole wheat bread in this world.
I worry about the fact
That if I am an object meant for consumption,
Why do I never get eaten?
I worry about how I can never count down the days until I die,
Even if I wanted to,
For I have no concept of time and space.
I worry about the tears that cannot leave my face,
Because it is not real.
I worry about her
When I should worry about me.

I cry?  
I don’t exactly have the physical capability to cry,
Or to feel…
Or to even write this poem.
I guess some things can’t be explained,
Like the fact that I am a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  

I understand that I am not really a PB&J;  
I’m just trying to make sense of me.
But how can I trust others to tell me who I am?
How can I trust myself to tell me who I am?
They’ve both lied to me before.

I say everything like the words
Birthed out of my mouth
Are my last.
As a sandwich,
My life is full of uncertainty.
The one certain thing
I can be certain of
Is the certain idea
That the certain sounds
That I vocalize with such certainty
Are certain to impact someone.

I dream.
I dream of castles and moats
I dream of rivers and boats
I dream of future and past
I dream of my firsts and lasts.
Just like you, I dream.
So why must my peanut butter and jelly dreams be prejudiced,
Like the jar of two-year-old apricot jam
Made by Grandma, with love
In the back of your refrigerator.  
Why must my dreams be antagonized
When the question before me is,
“What do you want to do with your life?”
Now, amidst all this dreaming,
A better question is
“Are you still sleeping?”

I try, I really do.
But sometimes trying isn’t enough
In our world full of sociopaths
Who think they’re sandwiches,
Lead by an orange monster
Whose tweets make less sense than my stanzas.

I hope that one day
I will have better metaphors
Than those relating to food.
But for now,
I am a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
—  The Metamorphosis of Everything