Ask me about myself,
Perhaps I will say something
To surprise myself.
Who - what - is myself?
What defines me?
I don't know what I like,
Or what I dislike,
Nor do I know how I've got this far.
I was, like all, born as a blank slate,
But what have I become?
No Rosetta Stone, no genius,
No fool, nor any computer,
Can understand what is carved onto that slate.
It is me, and yet
I can't understand it myself.
I ponder, is personality merely a construction?
Am I not designed to fit in?
I wish to find whoever engraved the slate,
And ask them what they know.
If not me, then who decided
The contents of my person?
I am tiring of the mystery, seeking some kind
Of frank honesty,
But I know that I will have to answer
This one by myself.
Yet, how can I solve a riddle by myself
When I don't know the first thing about myself?
The task is momentous;
If only there was somebody to help.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
