Self-Deceptions.

If I were to introduce myself I don't know what I'd say.
I'd call myself a dreamer, an idealist, a product of clay.
I'd have to scratch my head to find a word that would,
describe me so fully, as no other word could.
Maybe I'm a thinker? The profoundest one around,
or maybe I'm just an illusion in the dark surround.
Wait, I might be a complicated series of mazes too,
with twists and turns deep inside myself so true.
You could say I'm a bird with a lost set of wings,
or a nightingale with no talent to sing.
I could be a wrecked ship on the shores of fate.
or I could be a fragile shadow, waiting to fade.
Maybe I'm just another drop in the ocean,
or maybe I'm a lot more, like a tide in motion.
Sometimes I see myself as a shooting star,
a faraway planet or a whole galaxy so far.
Maybe I'm just another fish out of water,
or maybe I'm just a bunch of ashes, left to scatter.
I'm just a this song that yearns to speak,
a speck of sand lost among world's golden streaks.
I'm a strand of the silken threads spun of gold,
I'm one of those forlorn stories, seldom told.
I maybe the color of henna on a bride's palm,
or merely another mirage of titular calm.
The more I think, the more I believe,
I'm just another nobody, who am I trying to deceive.