Joined Apr 2024
Identity
I was using my family,
Everything a shape, a form—
An identifier to let others recognize me as me.
But then, what am I?
Is this me—
My true self,
Or my false self?
What is it that I am?
Nobody understands me.
I wear their names like borrowed clothes,
Fitting in shadows I didn’t sew.
I smile for them, I speak their lines,
But who is the voice that echoes inside?
Is it mine? Or someone else's dream?
A picture painted where I don’t belong,
A mirror cracked at the seams.
I stand in the quiet, shouting at the stars,
Asking, "Who am I when no one is watching?"
Am I a shape they carved for comfort,
Or a flame burning, untamed, unending?
Nobody sees it—
The storm beneath my skin.
But I feel it rising,
Washing away the mask they’ve given.
I am not their shape, their form,
I am not what they want me to be.
I am the chaos and the calm,
The question and the answer
I am becoming me.
I was using my family,
Everything a shape, a form—
An identifier to let others recognize me as me.
But then, what am I?
Is this me—
My true self,
Or my false self?
What is it that I am?
Nobody understands me.
I wear their names like borrowed clothes,
Fitting in shadows I didn’t sew.
I smile for them, I speak their lines,
But who is the voice that echoes inside?
Is it mine? Or someone else's dream?
A picture painted where I don’t belong,
A mirror cracked at the seams.
I stand in the quiet, shouting at the stars,
Asking, "Who am I when no one is watching?"
Am I a shape they carved for comfort,
Or a flame burning, untamed, unending?
Nobody sees it—
The storm beneath my skin.
But I feel it rising,
Washing away the mask they’ve given.
I am not their shape, their form,
I am not what they want me to be.
I am the chaos and the calm,
The question and the answer
I am becoming me.
this is a poem
i make novels and books but this is not and book or a novel
