Who I Think I Am

I was in the eleventh grade when I was told to write a poem about who I was. I was thrilled because I haven’t written a poem for a school assignment in years.

When I arrived at home that evening, I sat down to write a poem about who I thought I was and not what the world thought I was. So at 16 years old, this is who I thought I was. I’ll let the poem speak for itself.

You can also listen here and if you enjoy visuals, you can watch here.

I am embedded in the arms of beauty.

Fifty two story buildings that hover over me.

Where I’m from, the sun peaks over a pillar of fog making me feel smaller than I already am.

I am the spectator,

Always waiting for someone to ask,

“Hey, can I have a piece of paper?”

I am the never-say-no, get-up-and-go, stop-wasting-time type.

I am the wristwatch,

Always waiting for the tick-tock,

So maybe I am a walking paradox.

I am from four white walls.

I am from four white walls carrying the sound of my emotions into a USB cabled device,

Reciting rhythmic whispers as my pen flows on paper.

I am from loud voices,

Trapped securely in a box and the key sits right above my heart.

I am embedded in the arms of beauty.

I am the land and the cities that I’ve never embraced.

No touch, no taste,

No image of the cool water, the hot air,

The guys with nice eyes and neck ties,

The girls with their hair up high; it’s so easy to spot them.

I am the land and the cities that are so great.

And if these places are so great, then why I am still sitting on pillars of fog waiting for a clean slate?

If I am embedded in the arms of beauty,

Give me a minute to use some of this Visine.

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