Who Is the Pensive Poet

My pen hovers above lines in circles

Spinning an imaginary composition waiting to be played

Each line a string of different instrument

Sound lingering in the air in hesitation for the crash

The collision of ink and thin fibers

Where word will bloom across the page in soliloquy

But in the meantime, there's a hush

A wondering, a mind wandering

Toward what it all means

To be a poet, a writer, a person in this crazy world

Where the more you try to find yourself

The more lost you feel

When the search for true and authentic identity

Leaves you even more confused and tatter-ended than in the beginning

Do we ever truly define ourselves

And answer the elementary question of "who am i?"

Or does it take a lifetime to only unveil the secret in your last breath before-

But for now, I balance my curiosity and responsibility on shoulders that have calloused internally

Try my best to stay in the present before rushing into a future unknown

Where every corner could lead to an unexpected experience

And hope that before my last breath, the pen hits the page

And dances a while