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Who I Am
A man of passion who lives in his dreams,
Like Don Quixote who all in his mind,
Tilted at windmills, but, only to find,
In the end, all illusions and madness,
Concludes his life’s deluded in sadness.
This is not who I am.
An intellectual sort, wise, old sage,
Who brings forth answers to better the age,
Can solve world problems just giving them thought,
And right all the wrongs and do what is ought,
If given enough chalk and time and space,
Applying his brain, put all things in place.
This is not who I am.
A moody old cuss, all emotionally raw,
With bile and bitterness stuck in his craw,
He’s seen it all and seen far too few joys,
Expects the worst from fate’s little ploys,
And sullen and sorrowed he trudges on,
To find others to share his depression.
This is not who I am.
A lover, companion, pretty nice guy,
The sweetest of souls to ever come by,
Too true a friend to be hardly believed,
Put trust in him and you won’t be deceived,
A more selfless soul you’re pressed hard to find,
Honest, considerate, warm hearted, kind.
This is not who I am.
To some extent yes, to some extent not,
Each of these leads to some of what I’ve got,
Alas no scribble of lines on a screen,
Can sum up the total of who I’ve been,
I’m still defining the makeup of soul,
That mixture of things that makes one a whole.
This is who I am.
So forgive the mess you see if you can,
Forces work at still constructing this man,
So if I falter and show a bad face,
Apologies, while I repair the place,
“Under Construction” the sign you should see,
It’s been a long job, this building of me.