Being Me






The current of my nature flows,
The only path the spirit knows.
No mental strain, no forced disguise,
Reflects the truth within these eyes.
The gait is common, plain, and free—
It’s easy, yes, just to be me.




But should I gaze upon the stage,
And try to turn a foreign page,
To mimic movements, sharp and neat,
And steal the rhythm of their feet,
A heavy effort starts to tell,
The mask does not adhere well.




My voice grows thin, my gestures fail,
Beneath the weight of borrowed mail.
The borrowed phrases feel like lies,
The awkwardness begins to rise;
The effort to achieve such grace—
It's difficult to try to be anyone else.




The soul rejects the ill-fit shell,
The conscience knows the plot too well:
That counterfeits will not sustain,
And only bring exhausting pain.
The energy required to feign,
Is better spent on growth and rain.




Why seek a mold already set,
Or chase a shape I can’t quite fit?
The only role that stays secure,
Is the self that’s honest, deep, and pure.
The script is written, known, and true,
The light is me, the life is new,
So I stick to being myself.



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