It is so ironic and so paradoxical
That the one who assigns
Identities to every single
Person that she meets
And characters that she creates
Is the one who is
Most unsure
About her own.

The characters are reflections
Of her hopes and dreams
Her hates and loves
And all in between.
Pouring words out
To create masterpieces
But she never really thinks
Of what is left inside.

Or is she too empty after giving out life
to have anything else inside?

Is it wrong, per se
To wish to be
The character you have created
The one who has suffered
But lives as your
Ideal
And in that sense…is perfect?

Is it so wrong
To take all the beautiful features
And solid values
And unfailing virtues
And place them all in one shining image?
Is it so wrong
To envy
That which you have created?

Of course, It does not answer the unspoken question
unsaid until this very moment
Who am I?

I am a writer.
My life has just begun.
And I have the power
to be
Whatever I make Myself to be.