Who am I?

I am who?

Questions that not only are asked by myself,

But by other people, 

People like you.

There is a distinction between

What I am,

And what I want to be.

“What am I, really?”

Or,

“What do I want to be?”

They are different, yet similar.

Black, yet white.

Poison, yet venom.

As if these two questions were homonyms.

So similar, yet so distinguishable.

It is difficult to decide who I am,

Or even what I am.

But it is just plain perspicuous,

To decide what I am not.

I am surely not a sociopath!

I have no egotistical desires, truly.

I am not one to scath. 

For why criticize,

When I am not exceptionally wise?

You would understand,

At least if you knew me.

But am I not forever changing?

Just as a cloud does?

As a human myself,

We never stay the same, just because.

I am, in addition to that, a shell.

A shell that surrounds my personality and inner thoughts.

I want to be more, however.

I mean, who doesn’t?

I want to be more than what others tell.

More than a story being told by lots.

Something more than just clever.

I never was; I just wasn’t.

As stated by everyone else,

I am smart.

But I want to be more

Than what is told by other people.

I want to be what is told by me.

Who better knows me

Than me myself?

So who am I, then?

Well,

I am merely a mirror.

A reflection of who I am.

Who I am,

not on the outside.

But who I am,

Through my actions.

Through my personality, hobbies, my thought process.

I am the zeitgeist in history:

The mere spirit and mood.

I am what I love.

I am my interests.

I am art, aesthetics, and éblouissante.

I am music, chords, a melody.

I am dance, a form, grace and power.

I am poetry, a villanelle, a soliloquy.

I am not you, reader.

I am the author.

I am nothing special,

Yet completely unique.

Nobody is like me,

Yet many people relate to me.

So who am I?

Well, it’s simple.

I am just me.