What is my name,
at birth I did claim,
that holds my shame,
in this insignificant frame.

Crosses lips without meaning,
floating on the wind,
landing on my ears,
with it, the world’s fears.

A name built on ego,
with baggage in tow,
to tell and show,
nothing of value to know.

A cluttering of things,
juggled since youth,
with slight of hand,
distracting truth.

What is my name,
that I want to claim,
needing no fame,
a man, not to tame.

Whispered with grace,
my own lips do trace,
spoken with vital force,
originating at the source.

A name built on verve,
created to serve,
the world to see,
an honest transparency.

Identity of desire,
lighting a fire,
that torches fear,
leaving vision clear.