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?



Grant-Grey Porter Hawk Guda

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

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