Something I wrote for a school poetry contest. Normally I hate poetry, but the theme Identity was just too interesting to pass up. This is what I came up with. (I won first place, by the way!)

Identity.

A hard, unfavourable injustice that flies across an open room,

A panel of darkness blocking the way.

A patter of feet across the gloom,

A second look into the glass.

A figure of speech,

A broken shard.

A cry into the wind, swept far away into prose,

A snuffed out flame of desire.

A beautiful blooming red rose,

A winter’s morning.

A look of recognition,

A smile across the yard.

A delicate breeze sifting though unwanted mail,

A mutter of thanks under a breath.

A bark of laughter through unforgiving hail,

A realisation of shame.

A swift glance,

An unnamed card.

What makes these things singular?

Different, and unique?

What makes you yourself?

And what makes myself me?

All of us are different, just like flowers, or trees.

Just like the rate at which the wind blows,

And the way I call myself me.

Identity is precious.

Lest you ever forget,

Identity is what makes us different,

At a quick, judging glance.

Remember. We, you, she- not one of them is me.