I was born as me;
I don't know how
to be anyone else.
But why was I born?
I was lucky.
I was one of millions of eggs.
I was at the right place
at the right time.
Was it fate?
I don't know,
no one ever really knows.
At least not while they're living.
What does it mean, to be living?
It means having a pulse.
It means thinking.
It means vibrance.
I can't explain it.
Why not?
Because I'm human.
I'm a candle
next to the sun,
overshadowed by the light.
----
Notes: Today's prompt: "Write a series of questions and answers to compose a poem." I didn't really like having to write in questions and answers, and I'm not thrilled with the final poem. I do like the last three lines, however. Perhaps I will be able to use them (or some modification thereof) in a future poem.
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