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.