I often wonder who I truly am,

If I truly am, I wonder often.

I often wander down the path less traveled.

The more the wear, I walk upon it much less.

I often make eye contact with myself.

When I do I turn away.

I have my share of doubts and fears,

And I fear my doubts,

And I doubt my fears.

But I’ve never once ignored these tears.

They stream down my face,

Into my morning coffee,

They travel through the drain,

When dumped and I’m jealous.

Why are they free?

Can I be let free from you?

Like these feelings are free of me?

This.

Is.

Me.

I’m high strung, I’m pessimistic.

Optimism left me long ago,

And stress free?

Well I’ve merely grasped it.

I think myself a basket case.

Others see me as a writer.

I see myself jumping off the edge.

Others see me writing sonnets.

About all of the wicked things from my life.

So they can read my thoughts and feelings.

And twist them into things that fit themselves.

When deep inside these are true to me,

They are not to tangle up with others.

This is me.

This is who I am.

I’ve never written a word for others.

Even when I write to you,

Every sentence belongs to me.

Every line I write about you or he,

Or she or they or it or we.

The memories are mine to weep out.

Or smile about.

Or laugh about.

They fit me.

They are mine.

They are Me.

I am this.

THIS is me.

This is who I am.

Every word.

I am a sheet of paper.

I write myself down.

I tear myself to shreds,

I hang myself up.

I take myself down.

But I allow others to read me.

Hoping that they might GET me,

Only to be disappointed by the image in the mirror

That no one but I myself can see.

I turn away.

Not ashamed.

I know me.

I don’t have a need or want to look again.

I just am.

I just want to be.

This

Is

Me.