Lines and curves of ink
Across clean plains of lined paper
This is who I am.
Words, in neat, straight rows
Like eggs nestled in white cartons
Furious, heart-breaking, comforting words
This is who I am.
Late-night musings, memories relived;
Faded by time, but with some things bright as ever
The scent of a childhood pillow
The sound of the breeze over the hills
The colors of maples in autumn
The feel of cold hardwood beneath my feet
This is who I am.
A smooth personality edged with a razor
A smile on a mouth holding back secrets
Eyes that show mercurial emotions
A laugh that is not tinkling, sparkling, or musical
This is who I am
Shelves overflowing with worlds
Held safely within numbered pages
Countless escapes from anything
The books perch, waiting patiently
This is who I am
A song alwyas brimming up my throat
To come pouring forth
My voice quiet and hidden
Or projected and room-filling
This is who I am
Black ink permanently preserved
On carefully uncreased paper
My thoughts
My poems
This- This is who I am

No, this is not who I was
I do not know that this is who I will be
But now, in this eternal, abrupt moment
This is who I am.