November 19, 2011
I don’t know who I am.
Maybe in writing I can figure it out.
I will write a list
Of all my traits
Of all the millions of sides to me.
This is who can be;
Who it is easy for me to pretend to be:
I am crazy
I am weird
I am fun
I am funny
I enjoy making people laugh
I know that much.
That is true.
I am infatuated
I am horny
I am independent
I am needy
I am the tiniest bit clingy
I am lonely
I want someone there for me
That much I know,
That is true.
I am creative
I am not artistic
I cannot draw
I have a vivid imagination
I can only express it through writing
I love to write
It is my passion.
That much is so true.
And of my friends
I feel most at home
When I am unfiltered.
When I can say what I think and slip up,
And slur my words,
And mispronounce words,
Or use them incorrectly,
And learn from it.
Or say things that are “out there”
And not be judged,
And not be ridiculed
For being myself.
Myself is unfiltered
Myself is rarely shown
I am a rarity.
That I know.
I am not alone.
But the real me is hidden.
These words fall on deaf ears
And sometimes they never fall on ears
That is where the issue lies
I want to tell someone
I need to tell someone
Who can I tell?
Who am I?
Who can I be?
Who can help me?
Someone help me.
Who I am
Is someone who is filtered

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