I cannot call myself a

I cannot call myself a poet

I can't compare to those who truly know it

To Whitman and Brown and Frost and Poe

What is a word worth but a way to show

My emotions and ideas to the world around me

While I am trapped in my own soliloquy

Silence is normal, our minds shut up tight

We know only ourselves and so that's why we write

I can show you myself and you'll show me your view

And for a moment in time I can think like I'm you

And my words will never be as lovely as some

Nor my rhymes or lack of be as profound or as fun

But I write for the me that's1 alone in her head

And I read for the me that I could be instead

And I'll have lived and have died many times in the end

And I'll love and have lost many dearest of friends

And I'll walk the sandy shores and I'll climb the tallest tree

And I'll do all of this and though seated, feel free

I am not my words but my words are myself

And they are what make me me and nobody else

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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