This rattling mess poetry has grown

It's January, so I'm feeling fiercely reflective and ambitious about all the wrong things. I'm wearing three layers of clothing and rubber slippers with socks while I smoke a pipe shaped like a green Axolotl, and I wonder, who the hell am I now? 

I'll be 33 in early March. I have two brothers and ten sisters. I like TV, astrology, my dogs, smutty memes, red wine, dangly earrings, owning too many notebooks, and sushi. I've been writing seriously since I was nineteen. I used to write creative nonfiction, fiction, AND poetry, but the first two have mostly faded (though I occasionally still get an itch to write a short story). Nonfiction pissed off my family more than it was worth, and fiction pieces took me years to write, but poetry has stuck with me. Poetry helped me grow up. 

So what is this rattling mess poetry has grown with its own hands (think of soil caking green garden gloves)? This poem of mine, “Dream Interpretation,” first published here in Pank, is likely the best intel on the subject since every dream mentioned is a dream I truly had that summer.  

Here is my psyche in poem form. A penny for your thoughts: will I ever not be lost in a sandstorm?