Who Am I?

Who am I?
I ask myself every time I sit down and strike the page with my pen.
Who am I?
What traits do I exhibit that are worthy of pages of poetry?
Who am I?
Which emotions do I have that can be regurgitated into stanzas?
Who am I
To actually believe that any of my traits are deem-able worthy?
Who am I?
Nothing intact, thoughts running rampant like raging bulls in my brain.
Who am I
To expect ideas to come to me without putting in the work to find them?
Who am I?
Am I anyone if I can’t recite everything I am, was, will be?
Who am I
To think I’ll be anything at all?
Who am I
To put myself down and call myself a fraud and a liar?
“Who am I?” Is up to me.
Only I can decide.
Only I can accept defeat.
But I won’t.
That’s not who I am.