The Pond

Every day I stare back at the

reflection in the pond,

the face in the mirror,

the thing that claims to be me,

and I wonder: is this me?

Is the dirty face me?

Are the scarred arms me?

Is the matted greasy hair me?

Are the eyes mine,

or are they someone else's,

just made to reflect my emotions?

Are my hands mine,

are my words mine,

or is my whole body plagarized

like a highschool english paper?

Are my thoughts mine?

Are my stories mine?

Or are they, like the rest of me,

copied from some lowlife long ago?