IN OTHER WORDS
The writing prompt that sits there staring me in the face says
“Tell us about you. Who are you? What do you believe in? Why?”
Who am I?
Is it sad that when I’m asked this question, my mind goes blank?
I gaze at this page like a zombie--the same one I’ve been staring at for over half an hour,
And the only thing that’s changed is that there is now a single dot of ink
Where I started a thought,
But with all confidence lost,
I stopped.
Who am I?
Nobody’s ever asked me that before,
So I don’t know where to begin
You need an answer to this question?
I suppose I’ll just ask again, who am I?
Well, I’m eighteen, with a hot temper, and stubborn as hell
In other words, I’m young, I’m dumb, and frightened of change
But I’ve got more swag than Billy Dee
which means I know everything, don’t it?
Or maybe I know absolutely nothing and have too much to lose if I show it.
‘Cause I learned long ago that strength and respect don’t come from giving in, but rather from taking in.
Like how much can you hold before you explode?
From time to time a helping hand would be nice, but do I look like someone who asks for help when they need it?
I never concede, I’ve been in deep, caused a scene, and even let my own blood take the blame for me
In other words,
I’m a complete fucking mess
I guess that helping hand would look pretty good right about now,
So I reach out, stretching, hoping to feel someone’s grip
pull me out of the water and back into the ship
Screaming “someone save me, ‘cause I can’t save myself”
But we’re all in the same boat until it goes down
And when it does, I can’t swim knowing that I let others drown
I just wish I knew how to keep afloat
Who am I? The hell if I know.
All I know is that when I write, I am liberated
When I’m in my mode, I flow like the Columbia,
I burn with the passion of sixty-thousand war mothers shouting “Bring our boys home!”
I breathe in sync with the hip-hop heartbeat
And in times of tragedy I dig my feet deep in the dirt.
So when you ask who am I?
I am water, fire, air, and earth
In other words: I am elemental.
Poor, in social status
Flat broke, economically
But I’m rich in character and wealthy in life experience
So, in other words: I’m ballin’
I’ve done drugs, been beaten, been praised and shown love
In other words:
I’ve been fucked up, torn down, and rebuilt from the foundation
And still I stand here in overt celebration
And you ask me once again
Who am I?
I am just a being in search of love, happiness, forgiveness, and truth
So I guess, in other words: I am human.
Who are you?
The writing prompt that sits there staring me in the face says
“Tell us about you. Who are you? What do you believe in? Why?”
Who am I?
Is it sad that when I’m asked this question, my mind goes blank?
I gaze at this page like a zombie--the same one I’ve been staring at for over half an hour,
And the only thing that’s changed is that there is now a single dot of ink
Where I started a thought,
But with all confidence lost,
I stopped.
Who am I?
Nobody’s ever asked me that before,
So I don’t know where to begin
You need an answer to this question?
I suppose I’ll just ask again, who am I?
Well, I’m eighteen, with a hot temper, and stubborn as hell
In other words, I’m young, I’m dumb, and frightened of change
But I’ve got more swag than Billy Dee
which means I know everything, don’t it?
Or maybe I know absolutely nothing and have too much to lose if I show it.
‘Cause I learned long ago that strength and respect don’t come from giving in, but rather from taking in.
Like how much can you hold before you explode?
From time to time a helping hand would be nice, but do I look like someone who asks for help when they need it?
I never concede, I’ve been in deep, caused a scene, and even let my own blood take the blame for me
In other words,
I’m a complete fucking mess
I guess that helping hand would look pretty good right about now,
So I reach out, stretching, hoping to feel someone’s grip
pull me out of the water and back into the ship
Screaming “someone save me, ‘cause I can’t save myself”
But we’re all in the same boat until it goes down
And when it does, I can’t swim knowing that I let others drown
I just wish I knew how to keep afloat
Who am I? The hell if I know.
All I know is that when I write, I am liberated
When I’m in my mode, I flow like the Columbia,
I burn with the passion of sixty-thousand war mothers shouting “Bring our boys home!”
I breathe in sync with the hip-hop heartbeat
And in times of tragedy I dig my feet deep in the dirt.
So when you ask who am I?
I am water, fire, air, and earth
In other words: I am elemental.
Poor, in social status
Flat broke, economically
But I’m rich in character and wealthy in life experience
So, in other words: I’m ballin’
I’ve done drugs, been beaten, been praised and shown love
In other words:
I’ve been fucked up, torn down, and rebuilt from the foundation
And still I stand here in overt celebration
And you ask me once again
Who am I?
I am just a being in search of love, happiness, forgiveness, and truth
So I guess, in other words: I am human.
Who are you?