Ink On Paper
(more about identity)
As children, it was easy to conform.
Identity not yet written, not put to words
Eat, sleep, and crawl, All things printed
Like lines within journals
Every turn of a page were spaces empty
Plenty of room to grow.
The first blot of ink placed is not our own
But from that which surrounds us
The taste of cold air upon our skin
The first face seen from shaky eyes
The sound of thumping drums on someone's chest
The feeling of pain when you're detached from the steady pounding
All are smudges, marks that shape
But smudges placed on paper
Never to be erased.
And then, The first word: a name
Read over and over and over again
On each page, repeated in each chapter
Until you learn to associate it with the self
But as pages turned
And the little booklet that is you
Became more content-driven
You learn to explore
And search for meaning in each word
As you search, remember
Stories are written in different styles
Some jotted-in cursive lines
Others are neatly organized within pages.
Constantly redefining phrases
The changes are endless.
Do not compare yourself to other works of art
There are no two books the same
Only borrow from them what you can
Do not paste their words of shame
You're uniquely written
Words eloquently fitted into each line
Do not let others write your story.