Possibilities of Identity

I Am...

An open book  never read  because the pages are too sharp to turn me over.

A book never making contact with a soft palm. So what is this crease to my pages?

The printed ink on the papyrus sheets doesn’t allure curious eyes.

Only being read by it’s creator.

My words are rich. It is the oil that is erupting and sprayed all over these deserted pages.

What am I? Maybe I am...

The extra dark curving pigment that rest underneath restless eyes, staring off towards their work.

I hung low, feeling more close to the weakening bones as it tries to carry me upward to promising days.

This shows what I do at silent nights, but is it really silent?

The clock’s double tongue keeps warning me of my cold bed.

The clocks grow louder, unaware that I earned these black eyes from a fight for my education.

On the other hand I am…

A marimba that collects different notes only to integrate it all to become one harmonious song.

When I speak, the notes travel through the hollow openings only to be sent to fill the hollow openings of hearts.

The instrument that brings a unity of a blue and white nation as the obscure sky creates a natural limelight for me.

A limelight I never got because people say a Xylophone would do it better.

But I also do know what I am not…

A drop of rain representing a tear of a forgotten lord.

I’ve seen the tears fill up the holes on an asphalt road.

The rest of his children are being shower because of misbelief.

I pray at damp nights that I won’t wake up to a tsunami.

I can’t be…

The black sheep in my family, if the lungs I preserve never felt the Devil’s breath.

I didn’t have time to dance bachata with the Devil, I was too busy trying to put my other left shoe on.

If the abstinence child persevere out of his relative weekend’s nights surroundings, is he still the black sheep?

No, He was solely surrounded by black sheeps.

My vessel doesn’t know about the liquid that caused blackouts for my uncle.

I definitely am not…

A mariachi loving, salsa dipping, sombrero wearing “chent”.

The tongue that was mocked because of how hard the tip of it hit the roof of a mouth, is the same one that is translating for a community.

I can eat up every stereotype throw at me, I’ll eat it with jalapenos and spread a layer of queso so I can satisfy my latino self.

It’s the one title I can suit for myself, I am my own tailor.

All of my 17 years, I place a label on me like if I was a product.

I realized that I am no product, I am myself. I am Gustavo…

A open mind individual that discover himself through trials of disguises and finally reached the verdict of being himself.