Who am I?

I have a lot on my mind. 

I'm lying. 

I have nothing on my mind

but the question of "Who am I?" that bounces around in my head

like a ball that can't keep still. My lungs breathe in deep. 

I call myself a writer, but is what I write really worth reading? 

A story coming out in waves that interrupt the silence that covers the dark cavity

of a mind so strong and willing to take on the worse. 

Is it worth living? 

In the shadow of others and not show who I really am inside

Instead just walk around like that happy part of me has died and yet here I am

afraid. Just an empty body with nothing left to give. 

Blank slates of empty promises engraved within the walls of my skull. 

It's hard to be yourself in a society where being different singles you out like a disease. 

I constantly struggle with finding out who I am.

With no one giving me my freedom, I have to find another way to access that part of me

That part of me that wants to break free and showcase what endless possibilites are available to see

So Who am I? 

I don't know. 

But I'll let you know when I find out. 

This poem is about: 
Our world


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