I hate my name.
When I signed it for the first time,
the paper went up in a flame,
and it came out as a crime.
As the coffee spilled over the paper,
I found the destruction.
It surrounded me like vapor,
and there was no more instruction.
Staring down at my own title,
having control over who I am
soaking through my vitals,
I am not Sam, and I don’t eat lamb.
It was like a mistake on the pie chart,
but it was more valuable than art.
At first, everything I wanted to write about seemed to not have any words that rhymed. I would have my fingers flying across the computer keys, but all the words had no connection through ending letters. Then I started to listen to music and realized that my name is something that I hate to write and say, but it is five letters that defines me in a simple two syllables. When I found something that was extremely meaningful to me, and I knew each flaw but those were overruled in the end by the reason I usually conclude; There is seven billion people in the world and most of us have the audacity to think we matter, and I am one of those seven billion and I am proud of that.