Self Expression

Sometimes, 

I wonder:

Who am I 

To put this pen 

To this page

And let the ink

Swirl itself

Into its' pattern?

Or to breathe life

Into my thoughts

And allow them

To speak

For themselves?

Maybe,

I think,

I am no one.

Maybe, I am

Just a whisper

In a crushed ear,

A hollow echo

Of what it means

To be anyone at all.

Maybe, I could

Be anyone,

And it wouldn't

Even matter;

Because I think

I'd probably

Still write about

The same thing.

I think I'd still

Write what I felt:

About what it is

To be sad

Or to be joyful

To be angry

Or to be at peace.

Maybe, to write

Is to surrender

All that I am

And become

Something else,

To trade my

Shaky voice

For something

A little more

Substantial;

To guise myself

And fly free

Of all the burdens

Of my identity.

Maybe then 

I will become

Not just human,

But a part

Of humanity

A narrator

Of that

Universal tale

Which we call life.