Are we born after death or with every new breath?

You are everybody you ever knew,
every story you ever heard,
every feeling you felt in your hearts,
and yet you are more than the sum of your parts.

Knitted together through genes
from the fabric of proteins,
in the womb of the mother
whose nutrition we shared.

Born from the womb with a cry that says “NO!”
we never seem entirely comfortable here.

Sure we have good times but bad times we, too.
How much of our life spent,
Knowing NOT what to do?

Societies constructed from tales of our past,
Our futures uncertain,
What days do remain?
What number, our breaths
from our first to our last?

And yet, who are we and more, who am I?
Am I simply a creature who doesn’t know “why?”

Still all, just the same,
with the time that remains,
composited me,
a jigsaw impossibility,
feels compelled to leave,
some pieces behind,
For the next generation of
people to find.

Every word that I write and is seen by another,
Understood by a person uniquely not me,
Is a chance to live on, in some way or some form,
If only a whisper
and the “me”,
long forgotten,

Then my life was well lived,
and the one I’ve begotten.

For we are born and shaped by forces
not fully our own,
Still we chose our own paths from the  ones that we see,
And create many parts of our reality,

Birthing ourselves,
That we do,
In the womb?
Here we are.

Are we born after death?
Or with every new breath?
With every contact we make
We the world, recreate.

-Kenneth Udut, 11-15-14 [idk i felt like writing a poem]

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