I am a poem… and you can never comprehend my entirety through a stereotypical perusal. You need to read between the lines.
Who am I?
Never did the best playwrights of time convey through their pieces the best answer to this million dollar question. And I guess no one ever would. But I would painstakingly try my best to do so. Here’s my piece…I am Mike Ariel Pastor Plaza (that’s according to NSO). How my parents thought of the name is something I don’t really give a damn. But what’s with the name, anyway? After all, Pacific Ocean, with a different name, would still be unfathomable. And I would still be me even if you mistakenly call me “Mark” and “Michael” just like what the majority of the populace commits.
I am my parents’ favorite son, simply because I am the only one. The always misunderstood who had always sought for attention. But that was before. I have already surpassed the days of being insecure with my sisters. Well, I’m too old for that. I now know they love me. The love they have for the three of us may have never been expressed in identical ways but I’m certain it’s equal. Corny but certain and it was never a late realization.
There are five things I could not live without: my left lens, my right lens, a phone, a pen and of course, my breath. I have spent most of my childhood years writing and reading but that doesn’t mean I’m boring. I am fond of playing with words and make a curl with every note. I hate wearing glasses but I have to. Screw James Patterson and Paolo Coelho, they made me a geek.
I love yellow. I love music. I love Math. Wait, did I just say that? I love eating especially when my emotions override my thoughts. I love laughing in the morning. I love crying in the night. I love when people think I’m shy because I am. Really. I am quiet when I’m in my lucid interval. I look serious most of the time but heaven knows I am not. I am happy. I am gay (any definition accepted).
I love my friends. They make me laugh at the top of my lungs. They best understand why I’m always blank and expressionless – the crazy individuals who know my frailty and remind me that I’m also crazy.
I certainly am not thrifty. I always have a hard time tracing back where I spent my pennies. I used to own a piggy bank when I was still a child. But when I broke that, inside was a five-centavo coin, a button and a chewing gum. How did those things get there was a result of being a blithe, stubborn child. Forgive me.
I am selfish especially with things I could not dare lose. Indeed, I am but nostalgic. I hate goodbyes. I find it hard to let go and detach myself from things I have already learned to keep. I hate alterations. I know I’m always cocooned inside memories. That makes me dramatic. Emotions are hard to conquer. Emotions are my weakness. I am always the fragile hearted who’s always teary-eyed to say goodbye.
I am not a nerd. I am not weird. I am unique just like anyone else.
Who am I?
I’m just a simple bit of earth formed human. That reminds me that there’s a HE who is responsible for making a ME. I was born out of love. I was born for love. That love would be enough for me to know what I am here for. That love would be enough for me to know who I am.
So while my parents pray for me not to fall in love. I am praying to find the reason why I am here and who I am.
I am a poem written by Him for everyone to read. Between the lines.
The truth is… I am His.