With a number two pencil resting across my fingers,
Unruly hair messily tied like a bird's nest,
Eyebrows squished in,
Faintly painted nails tapping,
My mind raged on.
What am I?
It is a question I pondered on for ages,
Yet it has never been fully answered.
"I am afraid,
I am the smile that conceals my sadness,
I am a child whose dreams have long gone."
But instead, I wrote,
"I am fearless,
I am the flower that grows with rain,
I am a wanderer who's lost in the clouds."
Written words are a form of power.
The weight they carry.
The fiery emotions they burn.
The irreplacable memories they remember.
They remind me of who I am.
Alone, yet not lonely.
After an endless hour of work,
With the accompaniment of my now-dull pencil,
I will have reflected on myself,
And once again,
The answer has changed.