Who am I:
Sometimes I look in the mirror and I no longer recognize the stranger
that is staring me live in my eyes,
Looking disgusted with what he views
Wondering what happened to the beauty that only those with vision could distinguish;
  Who am I:
My name is on the tip of my tongue
but my mouth seems not to be able
to utter the six letters that form the name my mother gave me,
Thinking so hard sweat beads drip profusely up my eyes,
down my cheeks onto my pad distorting my words written,
Indescribable phrases written in a heavy rage
feeling an emotionless reaction to not knowing my own identity,
Strangely I feel comfortable with the thought to restart life,
Re-write my fate and change what was pre-prescribed,
Giving thanks for the present because it has been gifted;
  Who am I:
A poet joined at the hip with his pen and pad…
Describing the many different parts of my essence,
Loving the fragrance of my presence…