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Abby
by on October 11, 2018
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What is an identity?
Is it what I am, or what others see of me?
Do I truly get to define what I want to be
Or am I born marked by a man’s theory?
I walk the streets, a mantle on my shoulder
A mask on my face, my heart no colder
Shoes tied, how different from a body that does molder?
While my own may not change, my soul yet grows older.
Stories of the Ages, Tomes of Old
Books full of pages of beings once bold
Taught to play fearless, yet forced to fold
Our great champions the most heated to scold
What is an identity?
Is it what am, or what others see of me?
There’s always more fish out in the blue sea
Yet the nets quickly inform us we are not truly free.
A pat on the back, a laurel after a test
Long since forgotten, replaced by barbed jest
The praise once desired, adulation for your best
Now empty and hollow, should it deign to eke from a chest.
That which protects us, also pulls us back in
Like the shepherd’s crook, urging us back to our pen
Quick to label the unknown and the new as a sin
Turning blind and deaf ear to any innovation.
What is an identity?
Is it what I am, or what others see of me?
A piece of art, illuminated in a gallery
The lights meant to blind us so we cannot truly see.
Topics: poetry, original