I am more than just a pale face

the ghost of generations past,

I am not.

And neither am I my upbringing,

or any of the things that

anyone else might be.

 

I am me.

Not perfect,

nor beautiful,

But I am,

in my own

special way.

 

I am like a book.

A book is like me.

Waiting to be filled

from cover to cover

with all the universe

sees fit to gift the likes of me

 

I am the universe’s

Encyclopedia Britannica.

The amalgamation of

all the many years it has taken

me

to be

me

 

Hard and leathery outer shell,

soft and tear-able,

vulnerable on the inside.

I am a work of nature’s progress,

the stars the author,

my mind and body the paper.

 

Under this pale face are the pages of

a cosmic book,

a work in progress.

Beautiful in it’s own way,

it is titled,

Me.