People see me But don’t really see They only view me Through their glasses I’m me through their lenses Of themselves Not me, just me myself. I’m coloured somehow Then tangled and braided By how they are And who they have Come to be. It’s a muddled mess Like shoelaces with knots That can’t be undone. Me through their eyes Ties me in their story, It doesn’t write mine. Only I create that epic. Because I own that pen To write my own story, With every day a blank page Of Me non-fiction Making me Me.