Who Am I

My mother Erica Lee, is always telling me: “Khalia, you can be anything you want to be." While my sister, Italia, continuously tells me “It's up to you to turn your daydreams into reality." 

Usually, I go with the flow as I paddle streams.  Now my passion burns like calories for my purpose in this bitch we call life. What position do I play? I’m on a mission every day, to decipher what kind of life I should lead. Should I lead or should I follow?  Am I filled or am I hallow? I need water because this life has been a tough pill to swallow.

All of this,  begs for the answer to the question. Who am I? No, seriously!  Who the fuck am I? I haven’t come to a conclusion: because all I have is options: and my heart is always shopping for new identities that need adopting.

I’ve been the loner, and I’ve been popular, I am a homebody now but not to long ago I used to party nonstop. I feel like an actress but in this scene, they took away my props. Here I stand, exposed like tan-lines, only left with the question: Who am I?

Three simple words that form a question that is so vital. My mind is on standby and my soul is still very idol. Titles have been used to describe content for centuries and I’ve been a book without a cover, so I ask my brother mother and sister for some assistance. 

I’m feeling smothered by the media. As I scroll through my timeline I discover nothing.

Who am I? Everything I plan to be hasn’t worked out yet! Insanity. Google can’t define me because you are looking at a woman of all trades wearing a mask of all and shapes ready to act with no shame. 

I guess it seems that my possibilities are endless. I can be someone to follow or someone hardly worth the mention like twitter I’m bitter because my friends dress better than me. I’m not Trendy, am I? I could change, and spend my change and dollar bills on fancy things and swallow pills like my friends. I don't do hardcore drugs but I love to pretend to

I mean it's hard to turn down what they lend you what they send you weekends tend to be a curious set of days Friday and Saturday I do it all but by Sunday I'm ashamed of what I did I'm on the fence and here I sit I go to church sometimes and each time I ask God to answer the question who am I does he know does he care are you listening are you there? 

It only makes sense to ask the maker why he made what he made and since we all look different our purpose cannot be the same. I am someone: an individual, whose mostly confused and sometimes spiritual. I am just looking to answer this question. While I pray for the maker to l respond I hope society will shut the fuck up long enough so I can listen. 

Tags: Inspirational, Abstract, Fear,