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I am a little choir boy, sitting in the first row of pews

I am Mark Grace, smashing rubber ball off of black tee

I am a sharpshooter, sending composite orb through nylon

I am a nerd, square framed face, metal, wrap around headgear

I am a tree, blooming into something I have never been

I am a batter’s nightmare, elusive white and red sphere flying from fingertips

I am a dork, butterflies flit at the very smell of femininity

I am scared, a boy playing a man

I am a warrior, transformed by the trial of cattle brand speech

I am a ghost, green and black covering tan skin

I am tired, forced to grow too soon

I am lost, surrounded by scholar and academic aura

I am found, more intelligent than I ever knew

I am fearful, the sound and smell of hatred all around

I am worn out, an adrenaline plagued nightmare