Who am I to judge
your presence of mind
to, if at least playfully nudge
my identity, without which i am blind.
Alas, in truth this was not how I wished
to express myself in a stringent manner
If I could dance, sing or paint I’d be so blessed
My prose must suffice, its voice a clamour.
Even though everything has already been written
different interpretations of the same still exist
the self already has been smitten
and in writing I may resist
The urge to stay true to form
the desire to adhere to function
stay with the crowd, provide the norm
Identical to others, I seek placation.