Can I truly be an artist? A writer, a poet, a dreamer? Death weaves itself into my work, And eternity seems to glimmer. More, is any man truly innocent? Experienced? Kind? These questions seem to eat away At thoughts in my mind. So, then, I am a philosopher? A thinker? What? In the color of purple ink, I seem to ask too much. Stranger, sir or madam, I beg Of you to answer me, For I cannot find it, Cannot see. An artist? Writer? Poet? Thinker? Asker? Dreamer? Philosopher? What? Perhaps simply a human being.