Who am I? I know the question, turns round
And sometimes I know the answer too, found
In the five hundred words, double spaced, printed;
Or by some other means without inkéd
Page to read from, sans manual to guide.
No stars or superstitions to confide
My wishful thinking and know my answer.
Who am I? Not too different. And sure,
I try to stand out, fight the uniform.
Uniqueness, I know, is all in the storm
In my head. Confusing rhymes and rhythm
The idea of me is less than phantoms
Could be, more a cloud of thought for thinking.
The point of this, beyond reach, is sinking
Into what could have been or should have been
Or who I want to be someday. So keen
To know, but less oft just content to be.
Why so foremost to define quality?
I’d be appeased to discern my own thoughts;
The more knowledge is less, now left for naught.

02/03/2008

Author's Note: for my shakespeare class. it was supposed to
an autobiography. but mine turned out a bit more
abstract. i think.

Posted on 02/05/2008
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