Dysmorphic

Whenever I see the word “noon”
I sit and I stare at it.
Logically, I know that it’s spelt right,
But the perfect palindromous parallel
Just looks wrong.

Sometimes in band, I hear a sound
And it’s just not right.
Logically, I know that it’s fine,
But the slight tremor torturing the technique
Just sounds wrong.

Sometimes I see myself in the mirror
And I don’t recognize me.
Logically, I know the body I see is me,
But the soul inside is suffocatingly stifled,
And I feel wrong.

Why am I me? I sometimes ask myself.

Why am I not somebody else?

I could have been anyone, anywhere.

So why am I me, why am I here?

I am who I am, but why?

Will I be someone else after I die?

Why do I look the way I do?

Why am I me and not you?

I am me, but why am I this way?

How come I am alive today?

From all the people I could be

Why am I exactly me?