The Breath of a Whistle

I am the breath of a whistle:

the soft pitter-patter of a drizzle.

I am the tears that flow in night,

the laughter in early morning bright.

I am crumpled ideas thrown under beds:

fears hidden inside innocent heads.

I am the tune sung to the steering wheel:

the exhilaration of tasting a decadent meal.

I am the cold sway of sun-beaten grass:

the creaky desk that rests in the class.

I am a small room with no decorations:

a tiny community in a sea of large nations. 

I am the forbidden thought of a deep desire,

and moonlit conversations beside the fire.

I am a pen with everlasting ink:

the merry noise of a glass's clink.

I am the white shirt speckled with spots and stains:

the cleansing river, the flood, and the rain.

I am the joy heard at midnight with faces aglow:

the rigid wall that stands to watch children grow.

I am the sorrow that separation provides:

the voice of a friend who yearns to confide.

I am the letters that make up a word:

the wind beneath the wings of the bird.

I am the dips of a bumpy ride,

and the pain that is felt inside.

I am the hot sun on a peaceful afternoon,

yet every night, I battle the moon.

I am all of these: the good, the bad,

the ups, the downs, the frowns, the glad.

I am the blacks, the grays, and all the blues,

the yellows, the whites, and the golden hues.

I am me and no one else.

I've taken so long to understand myself.

But who I am is who I want to be.

I would never be anyone else but me.