lots of things
But most of all
I am me
Because there's no one else for me to be
Besides this brain in a sack of skin
that thinks about the world it lives in.
Combinations of qualities
that make something unique
out of all these mundane pieces.
Countless things that make a human being
so many that apply to me
Is that my definition?
Is “me” just a puzzle
made of personality pieces?
Are we all just puzzles
waiting to be solved?
Or do we find pleasure in the
Who needs to know the finished picture?
When the pieces look so much better on their own
a creature of logic, of cynicism, of calculation
But those calculations
spawn from imagination
bright, hopeful, forever optimistic,
even in the grimmest of situations.
I am smart, when I wish to be
Dumb when in others company.
I am pretty when I try,
But my face turns ugly
when I laugh or smile or cry.
I am confident
I am unsure
I seek out the company of others
Yet I am a hopeless introvert
I laugh too much in conversation
Cry too much when I’m alone
I am a kite pulled from the hands of certainty
Into uncharted ariel territories
Trying to find my colored flag
From who my heart likes
and what my body wants
Silent like space
Loud like red
Energetic like a terrified grasshopper
Lethargic as a sleeping Sunday toad
Do these words paint a picture from life?
Or do they take some liberties?
Is the portrait a portrait?
Or just a painting with some minor similarities
Do contradictions make a person?
Do adjectives define a soul?
Questions, questions, so many questions
The answers to which I will never know
I am me
And that is all I can be sure of