When you look at me,
do you see a man: complete—
strong in cement I stand?
Or do you see fragile pieces,
too broken to believe in?

I am no more than the pen in my hand,
ink slipping down like hourglass sand,
smudging each page ‘till the pages are full
of wasted space,
like a diamond watch not fully jeweled.

I am no more than the man that I am:
born and reborn—I won’t die again.
I am not a painting—
or some piece of art,
I am constantly changing:
a piece...not a-part.

I am what I was made to be:
uniquely hearted and carefree—
a dolphin dancing at sea.
With this being all that I am,
will you still love me?
Will you take and hold my hand?
Or am I too cryptic—just not worth
the effort it takes to understand?