I’m implored to define the word:

I

As in an idea

Of what? My

Identity?

Ideology?

Individuality?

But “I” is the hardest word to define.

I may as well describe the world

In a word.

On Monday I am a doer,

On Tuesday a thinker,

On Wednesday a giver,

And on Thursday a worrier.

But when Friday arrives, 

It’s as if living with myself

Is akin to getting to know a new person

That doesn’t like to talk

Or speaks a different language.

When the prying eyes of the world fix their gaze on me,

They witness a manifestation, a figment, a lie.

Because as they assume and jump to their conclusions,

An unidentified, squandered figure scrambles to find itself

For the first time.