When you’re young, people always ask you,
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
And now that I’m growing, my answer has changed,
I don’t want to be a chef or a singer or an actor.
I don’t want anything, really. I’ve been asked to write this poem,
A poem about myself,
But I don’t know who that is. I can sit and pretend to understand
My own mind and my own brain
But honestly I can’t even tell you my own name;
It’s a word that lost its meaning
Because people kept repeating
the answer to your question,
“Who are you?” My name has been lost…
Lost through the crooked smile of the monsters
That stole it away from me.
I tried to save those four little letters
But I was not strong enough to face those demons
Because they were mine.
They were part of me just like my name. 
And now I’m here…
I’m here struggling to stand before you.
Petrified of the glaze that coats your eyes
Because I see
My own reflection.
I’m an earthquake you can’t feel
Because the shaking is in
My hands,
And in my voice. I am the aftermath of a hurricane.
I am the flood after a storm.
I am figment of disaster.
I am everything people wish wouldn’t happen.
And I am nothing people wish did.
But in reality,
I am not that significant.I am only a body In front of a crowd of blank faces.
I am another generic figure,
Bound to be forgotten. Who I am, is unimportant
Because in one-hundred years,
My name will cease to exist.