Oak

I sometimes feel like a glitch,

An inconsistency

Not stronger, or prettier, or purer,

Nor anything exceptional,

But different

Like an oak brick in a stone wall,

With no knowledge of wood

But it can feel it,

A feeling indescribable with what ideas it has been given

With no solid color to identify with,

It can only say it's similar to some

With this, it can never truly know who it is,

And can only lie, pretend, or assume when asked

Its only describable feeling, is hope

The hope that, maybe it's a good different

It doesn't have to be superior,

It just hopes that whatever makes it different,

Isn't simply a negligible glitch,

Or a handicap,

But an oddity with a purpose

Words can't define me,

If I am truly unique and my feelings don't deceive me,

I can't truly say who am

What amount of words will separate me,

From the other seven billion people alive

All I can say is, I am who I am

What defines me, is me

And if I am an oak brick,

I am less concerned with what oak is,

Than when the word would need an oak