Who I am?
Isn’t a question but a quest,
That I’d rather escape, than face.
Pulling the strings of a nature-crafted animal,
By a society-reigned mind,
Stirs up a cocktail we call the modern human being,
Being straight? Being sane?
Being a swashbuckling superstar?
Or a brave-heart border sacrifice going in vain?
We’re all humans until we’re expected to ‘be’ it,
Can a walking-talking miracle of
A paradox between Darwinian vs Divine truth,
Be reduced to mere adjectives, contained in words?
I’m rather that momentous cusp of evolution,
Where eons of wisdom felt the desire to express itself with words,
Never complete, nor revealed,
Yet, the society-reigned mind struggles,
Strives to make sense out of the animal within,
Only in ways approved,
Finding who I am inside,
In decked up scrolling timelines,
And catalogued success boots,
Is life all but a relentless compromise then?
I say it’s an irony that repeats,
For I tend to only find myself,
Every time I search for it the least
In changing sunset hues,
And in all the world’s art,
The more I try to discern myself in moments,
The better I find myself in pause,
Half a decade is all it takes,
For every single cell in me to regenerate,
Manifest itself in a billion possible ways,
Who do I then pretend to understand?
A fleeting fragment of nature manifesting itself?
Don't mind the quest or question though,
As long as my answer comes to make,
For one less blank & empty page.