(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.