Who am I? I cannot say.
I wander lost throughout the day.
I cannot tell who I may be
For there simply is too much of me.
I like fantasy and non-fiction;
I read too much and should study diction;
I’m a sponge; I’m a mirror;
I cause some people fear
Because I can shoot well.
They don’t know my fear of hell.
Some days that keeps me alive,
Insanity is so short a drive.
I remember what I see and read;
Books and movies change me indeed.
People’s traits I’ll copy, one or two.
Who am I? I’ll become you.
Yet even then my tale does not end
For there is no identical friend.
Who am I? I’m everything.
I’m books, movies, people, spring.
But yet again, I stand apart
As a dead sculptor’s lonely art.
Though I soak up each and all,
I still am separated by a wall;
I never truly deeply bind
With anyone that I can find.
This wall is there, I cannot scale
Or break it, trapped in this pail
Forever banging on the side,
Wishing I did not have to hide,
Looking out at friendships I can’t join,
Sad I ever passed the loin,
Hoping someone could set me free
But knowing somehow it won’t be.
I know, until I’m dust and bone,
Whoever I am, I’ll be alone.
Note: This poem I’m particularly proud of, as it won top prize ($15 gift card) in a poetry contest in my dorm during college. It actually somewhat illustrates how religious I used to be, now that I read it again.