Who am I?
I ask this question sometimes, but not as often as I should.
It’s healthy, I think, to ponder existence
As if it were a fig tree
Or a melody
Or flames
If there is a definitive answer to “Who am I?” then does that make me stale, outdated, a lie?
To personify
Is to stand by
While others define you for you.
—
Am I the creation of two parents?
One afraid to let go,
One afraid to be alone,
Both afraid of seeing who they really are
(Which is beautiful)
—
Or am I manufactured by my hometown?
That podunk cliche hamlet with a four-digit population
Where your name proceeds you
Before you’ve even built a reputation.
—
Or perhaps I can be qualified by my many characteristics —
White/male/straight/brown hair/brown eyes/6-foot but most likely 5–11 and 3/4s.
Maybe it’s my laundry list of beliefs and values —
