Who are you?

Who are you?


The question is asked and a crisis begins.


They wait as if I'll answer on cue,


but my mind swirls with answers, both many and few.


 


Who am I inside?


I ponder the question, but no answer is found.


Perhaps it would be easier if I simply lied,


but then I would have taken society's side.


 


How can I answer a question so unclear?


A name is what most seem to want


Yet wanting a title seems so queer


As it leaves the person with existance based fear.


 


If I am not a name, then who am I?


Am I a writer, a woman, a dreamer, or an artist?


Or am I as undefinable as the sky?


The question remains; who am I?


 

Comments

Grant-Grey Porter Hawk Guda

Powerful expression. Always let poetry fill your life. Keep expressing your heart.   

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