I Am Not Myself

These days, I question anything and everything that relates to me.

Why did I absolutely have to be born?

Does  my future hold having children or no children?

What am I doing right now?

I do not know all of myself yet.

I am trying to find the cube that will fit in the the circular board

and I am looking for the strongest glue to stick my emotions together.

People tell me a zoologist-author-naturalist is not a professtion,

but why does their hurtful words make me want to write,

sitting between streams of water

with the sounds of zebras lapping?

I am still in search for answers

and I probably will for my entire life.

How will I really know every aspect there is to me

if I have not met someone from Mongolia?

If I have not tightroped?

If I have not spoken at a Ted conference?

But if I do get there by some miraculous chance,

I will send you a postcard

and let you know

how it feels to be myself.

 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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