You are not your age
Nor the size of the clothes you wear
You are not a weight,
Or the color of your hair.
You are not your name,
Or the dimples in your cheeks
You are all the books you read,
And all the words you speak,
You are your croaky morning voice,
And the smiles you try to hide,
You are the sweetness in your laughter,
And every tear you’ve cried.
You’re the songs you sing so loudly when you know you’re all alone,
You’re the places you’ve been to,
And the one that you call home.
You’re the things that you believe in,
And the people that you love,
You’re the photos in your bedroom,
And the future you dream of,
You’re made of so much beauty,
But it seems you forgot,
When you decided that you were defined,
By all the things you’re not.
Ernest Hemingway
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