Self Expression
Sometimes,
I wonder:
Who am I
To put this pen
To this page
And let the ink
Swirl itself
Into its' pattern?
Or to breathe life
Into my thoughts
And allow them
To speak
For themselves?
Maybe,
I think,
I am no one.
Maybe, I am
Just a whisper
In a crushed ear,
A hollow echo
Of what it means
To be anyone at all.
Maybe, I could
Be anyone,
And it wouldn't
Even matter;
Because I think
I'd probably
Still write about
The same thing.
I think I'd still
Write what I felt:
About what it is
To be sad
Or to be joyful
To be angry
Or to be at peace.
Maybe, to write
Is to surrender
All that I am
And become
Something else,
To trade my
Shaky voice
For something
A little more
Substantial;
To guise myself
And fly free
Of all the burdens
Of my identity.
Maybe then
I will become
Not just human,
But a part
Of humanity
A narrator
Of that
Universal tale
Which we call life.