Who am I?
Just a husk
that has a name,
just a moving body
that claims
some sort of
superior
consciousness.

Who am I?
All flesh and stardust
particles that
become all of us
susceptible
to the inevitable
when my flesh
will cease to mend.
Am I my mortality?

Is this body made
of American skin,
made from some
specific region
that denotes
the value
of my existence.

I remember this
fleshy prison
full of emotions
that I have been
caged in
even when I am
constantly changing.

Who am I?
A puppet on strings
who dreams
of one day being
a real human being,
or at least
a reasonable
facsimile thereof.

Who am I
but a product
of every previous
generation,
a foundation
fitted with
the artistic
endeavors
of the clever.

Who am I?
but a single
ballerina
twirling
on a spinning rock
wondering
which will stop
and drop first.

Who am I?
But a finger
that points towards
heaven's dream
smiling at
sharp clouds that
pierce
the day lit sky.

Who am I?