To Be a Human…

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What are we, really?
When the light fades,
The sun fails to the darkness,
When the sound resides,
When the crowd recedes,
What do we suppose we are,
Really?

Whenever asked to define ourselves,
What we are made of,
Other than the atoms and molecules
We feel brewing inside of us,
Other than the perpetual need for sleep or food,
How are we supposed to define the being we carry?
The entity we are presuming to possess?
What do we think we really are?

In a perfect world,
(Whatever perfect means),
In the absence of blemishes and woes,
If not for the painful existence we must endure,
Or power through,
What would have become of us?

If we were to live in a world of no triggers,
Or a series of stimuli to disrupt us,
Would we have become more
Or less of our intended selves?

What is it to be a human?
To be the being you’re supposed to be?
To suffice a mold, you are supposed to fit?
To knot the unseen pieces into one?
To fit the broken scruples in unity?
Where are we when we exist?
What caricatures do we assume in the dark?
What edges do we have in a full bright light?
What do we see within our portraits?
What do we perceive of ourselves when alone?
The bitterness we savor,
The sweet agony we linger on,
The weakness we dread,
The strength we bury,
What are we, really?
What are we supposed to be?

What is it to live?
What is it to die?
Love, hate, cry, laugh?
What is it to burn?
What is it to soar?
What is it to fall?

If it weren’t for the facades we live by,
The presumed self we pride ourselves on,
Would we have become more or less of a human?

If it wasn’t for the temples,
We built for ourselves,
Where we revere our thoughts,
Where we govern the universe,
And worship ourselves,
What would have become of us?

If we don’t parade ourselves
With the cheer of existence,
The gloat of success (one or too many),
The mischief of living,
Would that be a path to becoming a human?

Yet,

If we are not humans,
What are we, then?
The automated machines we seek to become?
No emotion.
No imperfection.
No taint or flaw.
Perfect, polished, and proud.
What a shame to seek the unknown,
When we can explore the given?

Whatever we are made of,
Wherever we exist,
However, we pertain to life,
If we are to be humans,
There must be a way to become,
A path to trace,
A life to embody,
Or a being to hold on to.
An imperfect folly,
A wavering statue,
A battled soldier,
And a slave to the truth.

Because we are human.
If not all the time,
At least in some.