i want to know, really

who am i really?

i want to know!
i’m begging to find out,
on the edge of my seat, really.

it feels like a riddle, one that you’re asked on a long road trip,
but the answer remains on the tip of your tongue for 7 hours
a phenomenon, really.

i crave individualism and conformity at the same time,
a paradoxical odyssey (if you will),
who am i when not smothered by the people in the seats next to me?
and i’m always stuck in the middle seat, really.

maybe i’ll find out when the car stops.
i fear it won’t ever stop and i’ll spend days begging for shotgun.
however, i do not want the driver’s seat.

i want to know, really!