I am made of poems and spreadsheets,
of camera frames and careful plans,
I can romanticize a passing moment
then ask who approved the expense plans.

I like my feelings properly examined,
preferably with evidence in hand,
I can overthink a single sentence
and still somehow understand the brand.

I will make a film about longing,
then build the production schedule too,
write three pages about one feeling
and make a checklist of what to do.

I notice things other people miss,
the pauses, the looks, the little signs,
I remember who checked in on Tuesday
and which deadline moved three times.

I am independent to a fault,
I like my freedom, space, and air,
I can carry half a dozen problems
and still insist that I am fine.

I can discuss attachment and boundaries
with frighteningly reasonable sense,
then overthink one tiny interaction
and conduct a full investigation.

I am creative. I am analytic.
I am sharp, sentimental, and strange.
I can turn a feeling into poetry
then turn around and optimize the exchange.

So yes, I am rather complicated,
a curious mix of heart and brain.
I contain multitudes, deadlines, feelings,
and several tabs I forgot to close again.