Everything has a definition.
Someone’s interpretation.
My rendition.

I can spew vocabulary words until I’m blue in the face and black in the brain from taking the beating of literary meaning.
Descriptions of literature.
Every test given: aced.
Memorized scripture. Burned into place.
Competing for ranks
keeping up with the pace.
GPA.
SAT.
I can explain just about anything,
anything but me.

As I watch my peers put their pens to the pavement
My pen can’t conjure a single statement.
My friend’s sights are proactive and my stare complacent.
The sky is their limit, but I’m stuck in my basement.

Their dreams and goals gleam like gold.

Everyone’s got a firm grasp of the head upon their shoulders.
All of them are growing but I’m only getting older.

Their futures are all so warm and bright.
“But you’re a bright kid!”
“A people person!”
Right.
My smile won’t get me into college
My charisma won’t get me a degree
My marks are at best mediocre
And I actually bombed all of my APs.

How am I going to pay for tuition fees?
Where am I going to apply?
What is my major going to be?
When am I going to try?
Who is going to accept me?
Why should they?
Who are they?
Who am I?

Whenever I have a “me” project, I vaguely get by.

“Who am I?”
Steven.

“What are you?”
Uhhh…. communicator?
speech and debater?

That’s all I’ve got, but they want something more satisfactory.
Uhhh…. I’m an actor.
I have a show you could see?

Then I go off on a tangent about how communication is key.
But I cleverly evade the question: Who am I? Me?

Did you see your grade?
that’s degrading.
Measuring intelligence based on who does best.
You’re going to tell me who I am through some state standardized test.
Who am I?
To them I’m a stat.
A score
To them I’m only that.
Nothing more?

They get to determine my future through some marks on a page.
They want to mold me,
But keep me in a cage.
Inside a box.
“Outside the box”
but inside another.
We learn everything but what we actually need
We’re sheltered
We’re smothered

The next decade of my life hits me square in the chest.
Asking me to deduce my plight.
Begging the question: “What are you going to do next?”
I don’t even know what I’m having for dinner tonight.

The fright
begins
all bets
are in
My actions are labeled as sacred or sin.

My breathing
slows.
My balance
goes.
I’m on the ground.
looking up at myself.
the fluorescents are my mirror
I pick my story off of a shelf
and I start to feel fear or
confusion
as I steer
through the illusion
of the ideas of me by everyone else.
In these pages I can’t even recognize myself.
I wonder why?
Gee…
I’ve never taken the time to define
me.

As my paperback story goes back into the library
I put my book back on a different shelf.
My realization of myself becomes quite scary
I see the definition of me lies within everybody else.

My breathing becomes faster.
I want to be my own master.
Welcome to my master class.
But in this course, you won’t fail, or pass.

In order to define something
you have to know it through and through
and you may know me pretty well
but I won’t leave it up to you
or you
or them
or who?
Who am I?

The line between saint and sinner
aint becoming thinner
its just becoming hazy
but if you dare to toe the line you’re crazy

What if one toes the line for good
What is one is a saint in the hood
What if there are sinners at the correspondents dinner?

Everyday we see sinners under saint cover
After all, Judas was at the last supper.

But nowadays sinners become winners
and saints become faint in the big picture
So why would I follow biblical scripture
If I could be more successful living in magnificent sin

I am not a saint, a sinner, a bystander, or even a good samaritan.
These convoluted thoughts bring me back to my complacent stare again.

Allowing others to momentarily guide me is acceptable.
But with this newfound recognition I realize I’m anything but perfectible.
I am a chameleon to each moment.
I am a showman.

I’m easily impressionable and easily changed
What I do is objectionable and frequently rearranged.
You say what I do is
unmentionable
abominable
it’s questionable
intolerable

But if you’re the pot then I’m the kettle.
I have to get this across I will not settle.

The me’s of the world show mankind it’s true complexion.
It’s quirks.
It’s progression.
It’s hurts.
It’s redemption.
We show mankind everything but mankind’s perfection.
Because it’s non-existent.
I’m sorry, are you getting this?
Are you getting a good reception?
Why don’t you go ahead and ask YOURSELF the question
Ask: “Who am I?”
Dont be a victim of your own deception.
Me?
I’m just what appears in your reflection.