What Is Really Mine

I struggle

To retain originality

Swamped by

External influence

And opinions.

Do I exist as a blank page

A script engraved in stone

Or find meaning

In my responses

To stimuli?

Does the correlation

Build upon my core

Or replaces all

That I ever thought

Was mine?

Struggling to find my breath

I wonder If I ever knew what’s mine -

Oxygen that sustains

Blood that circulates

Or the force which responds to it all?