To Thine Own Self Be True...

I am the helper, with little help of my own.
Assisting where and as I can
Usually where the helping can be mine
Through my own person and no others

I am the worrier, the crier, never oft-happy.
Thinking about today, yesterday, tomorrow
Thinking cautiously of action, without action
Sometimes scared of the whole world

Save my one tiny corner of it, labeled ‘My Room'
Where I can lock the doors, put on headphones
Turn the music up, and the World... is forgotten
But sadly...only for a time.

I am the tiny girl, praying... for redemption, crying
Even when I'm not praying at all: hoping against hope,
That He hasn't given up on me yet when I stray
But return to prayer: Call it faith, loyalty, whatever.

I am the learner and the tutor
I gain knowledge of new things and pass it on
To those who don't yet know. I teach anyone,
If asked for the favor of helping them learn.

I am the writer, the poet, the artist of words
I write as it suits me and it pleases me, saves me
It may be good art or it may be bad, all perception
It is simply, truly mine, a me that even I know not

This is the best of me and the worst
There is more of me, some may say less:
Some who know me who would protest.
For now, it suits me to name these
The callings in my soul, mine own self true.