I own the pen that makes Me

People see me
But don’t really see

They only view me
Through their glasses

I’m me through their lenses
Of themselves

Not me, just me myself.

I’m coloured somehow 
Then tangled and braided
By how they are 
And who they have 
Come to be. 

It’s a muddled mess 
Like shoelaces with knots
That can’t be undone. 

Me through their eyes 
Ties me in their story, 
It doesn’t write mine.

Only I create that epic. 

Because I own that pen 
To write my own story,

With every day a blank page
Of Me non-fiction
Making me Me. 

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