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 thought,

"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.