Who Am I when Stripped of Others' Labels?: a Poem
In this time before I die,
and please make it very long,
long before that final sigh
with no words left for another rhyme,
and no lyrics for a song;
even with no requiem---
give me just sufficient time
to let me find out who I am.
Who am I?
They gave me a body, manly and strong
and a bunch of rules to make me complete,
along with a flag as excuse to belong;
also a childhood, too short and rarely sweet
and a god to call should things go wrong.
Innocent in ignorance, but always good-willing
with legacy of lies inherited from others
they passed it on to me to make it my ceiling
with a love of parents, with a care of brothers.
Who am I?
Sometimes at a junkyard a flower may grow
after all masks and fig leaves are torn.
With all those calendars so little to show
and just left with enigma of being born.
But driven from within by a stubborn quest
like caterpillar surprised by a pair of wings
I drifted through my years in a search of my best
with humbleness of beggars, and dignity of kings.
So who am I really, and does it matter?
For this joy of being doesn't need a label,
as if I got it all on a silver platter
every single crumb on my royal table.