I am not all the things my words make me out to be.
While my tongue clucks of bravado and strength
my eyes search for the easy way out.
I tell tall tales of how I've gotten by
by the skin of my teeth
by my own daring and will
but the enamel is worn thin
from the nights I spend chewing over
the moments I wasn't ready for.
Every day the sun passes over me
is another day spent passing idle conversaton
of what I will do one day, only if, never when.
If I speak to those who construct their sentences
with actionable words
with authority
with that self-assuredness
that theirs is the correct path,
I find myself wondering when the day will come
that my own words
will shape the person I say I am.
When will I be the person I say I will be?
Not until
I write my own story,
instead of listening to those of others
while wishing I had
a story to tell.