Me (A Poem)

Jake Lyda
2 min readAug 15, 2021

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If there is a definitive answer to “Who am I?” then does that make me stale, outdated, a lie?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 —

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Jake Lyda

I write about whatever interests me in the current moment: sports, entertainment, creative writing, lifestyle, etc. I'm tired of not being who I am.