You are everybody you ever knew, every story you ever heard,
every feeling you felt in your hearts, and yet you are more than
the sum of your parts. Knitted together through genes from the
fabric of proteins, in the womb of the mother whose nutrition we
shared. Born from the womb with a cry that says "NO!" we never
seem entirely comfortable here. Sure we have good times but bad
times we, too. How much of our life spent, Knowing NOT what to
do? Societies constructed from tales of our past, Our futures
uncertain, What days do remain? What number, our breaths from
our first to our last? And yet, who are we and more, who am I?
Am I simply a creature who doesn't know "why?" Still all, just
the same, with the time that remains, composited me, a jigsaw
impossibility, feels compelled to leave, some pieces behind, For
the next generation of people to find. Every word that I write
and is seen by another, Understood by a person uniquely not me,
Is a chance to live on, in some way or some form, If only a
whisper and the "me", long forgotten, Then my life was well
lived, and the one I've begotten. For we are born and shaped by
forces not fully our own, Still we chose our own paths from the*
ones that we see, And create many parts of our reality, Birthing
ourselves, That we do, In the womb? Here we are. Are we born
after death? Or with every new breath? With every contact we
make We the world, recreate. -Kenneth Udut, 11-15-14 [idk i felt
like writing a poem]
