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If there is a definitive answer to “Who am I?” then does that make me stale, outdated, a lie?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

The faith that there’s more than meets the senses, that to divide keeps us in past tenses.

Am I Bend, Oregon?

Am I husband to my wife?

Owner of my dog?

Writer of this poem?

What is “I,” anyway?

I’m drawing a blank, I cannot say.

It’s difficult for someone to articulate their oneness

You get too far in the weeds, it becomes a mess

It’s a question without an answer, I must confess

Best to just let it go and give it bless.

Who am I?

Nobody knows.

But that’s more than okay

To only suppose,

Because change can then happen

That’s how the legend grows

And at the end of it all

I can attest that I chose:

I am me,

The only one I can be.

More energy than matter

I don’t want to define myself

An experience of living

Want another poem? Here’s a quick one.

I heal, I coach, I write poetry. Want to be well and unlock your Self? Let’s create some conscious magic together!

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.