September Poem

On this September afternoon, I ask myself who am I?

Many times in life I felt I have been anxiety; I have been fear and burden.

I have been littleness with a margin that decorates itself with maybe too little dignity.

I have been attacker, I have been inflictor of evil.

I have been wound opener, a graceless speaker.

I have been frigid and cold. I have been a dark storm.

I have been a much too small tower, with a beacon of hope.

I have been tears, both loud and silent. I have been silence in anger and joy.

I have been arrogance humbled by sobering reality in the highest moments of glory.

I have been child seeking for fame, only discovering its ugly face.

I have been isolation, when silence was lacking.

Truth is, I do not know who I have been, or if anything of it has ever been seen. And here I see what the problem is, the seen or unseen, the “has been”, has still been me. I have decorated myself with guilt, just and unjust, dressed in softness of newness beyond, never giving up the futile hope that by attention all will be won.