Who am I ?

who am I ?
A recurring question,
like a persistent rash.

Oh, what an itch�"
a pleasure to scratch,
but it leaves quite the mark.

Like pus, the truth comes out�"
sometimes clear,
sometimes colored,
sometimes just bloody.

It seeps, it stains,
it smells like something
I’ve been hiding.

It’s repulsive.
It’s real.
It’s me.

This isn’t poetic,
this is infection,
this is identity
festering under denial,
flaring up in quiet moments
when the world stops
just long enough to listen.

Who am I?
Still scabbing,
still raw,
still scratching.

Reviews

[Arundass TP]

I think I won't exist but exists. Good poem

[Vol]

Williams,
According to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, this is defined as angst, and everybody has it.
It is the poet's job to lay it out on a slab dissect it and see what new and unique discoveries can be made from this new perspective. Good job!

[MayHeartsYou]

Ouch. Once again, I really vibe with this poem. I feel like you are a kindred soul. I hope you've found the answer, or at least some bandages and ointment