My name is going through hard times. My name can't keep up the rent because it has no job. My name can't find who it is anymore, so it sees a psychologist every Thursday. My name, Parker, and its buddy, Davis, are really down on their game. Parker used to be a worker of land for royalty, and Davis used to be beloved, but now they are always misnomered. My name suffers common and satirical encounters addressed as marker, or a valet for cars, just because that's how it sounds. My name is stuck without a job, without a place, it is known for what it is not and ridiculed for what others have done. No longer is it beloved or sitting next to royalty. It has become a lowly chauffeur, and now sits only next to a shaved-down crayon on a 2nd grader's desk.
The greatness of my name is all but forgotten, blown away as the eraser shreds on the child’s paper, with only the deceiving and ridiculous similar sounds to be known by. The importance of my musician Parker is overshadowed by musician Charlie Parker – my Davis by Miles Davis. My name fights its way to the front of crowds, eager to be noticed among the others. That is why night after night my name searches for a meaningful nomination, something that it can be called, something apart from the ordinary. And that is why every day out in the world my name survives puns that tear at the very purpose of its existence, causing questioning of what my name really defines, what it really means.
My name is a discarded pricetag, useful at once, but now tossed aside for what they really wanted. My name is a retired athlete, walking the streets as others do – but no longer seen for its former glory. My name is neither common nor original, because just like everything else about it, my name falls into the ambiguous grey area of mediocrity.
My name defines nothing. My name means nothing. Yet it is mine – and that defines my name.