Peeling off layers of humility
To at last reveal authenticity,
To exhibit my pride most shamelessly,
I accept this vulnerability.

To be who I am confronts irony,
As still letters mask personality.
The art form I love has complicity—
The true self hides inside true poetry.

To shed this self-loathing ability,
And be honest in rhyme’s complexity,
I create pages of pure fantasy
That speak the words I feel most honestly.

Words tend to survive mortal’s history,
Past their reflection of reality,
So they seem written with mendacity,
Though lies are beyond my capacity.

Today I acknowledge futility
Of a poem that lacks identity.
This writer makes no more apology—
I am written words and the words are me.