Becoming Self

I never change; much like a withering rose
Is still a rose, and though it might
Still take stock in the hope of becomming
Say, an onion, or angelica, or even a
Cat, it will always be a red rose

As much as I may shed, and molt,
And blossom with fresh poppies come May day
I will be that same old child that
cannot, for the life of himself, figure out
Why he was chosen to become a writer.