By Thomas Page

If I were to ask you who I was, what you say?

Not in some philosophical sense

Where I am condensed like soup in my forms

Or torn asunder by Scottish logic

But in a “it’s blah guy” sense of the word.

I don’t think anyone knows who they are truly

But rather some composite of pigments that looks together from a distance

Made by some artist that is just as confused as their subject

But are hung in galleries when they’re nearly there.

I still hesitate when I hear my own name

A word that is the strangest in all of English to me

Because it eviscerates the sense of peace

That being defined by any other word of the Anglo-Saxons has.

Even with that freedom of not being the only definition

There are still attachments of certain words

Of competing, dual-strokes of the pen

Crossing my heart

Hoping to die

To categorize me the best way any reverberation can

In some blood-pact of semantics

On a bee-loud summer’s day

In the reverie of nostalgic youth

Imagined but never felt

In quite that way.

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