I struggle to find myself.
On the brink of adulthood,
I have a few foolish ambitions.
I am a writer of sorts,
But I only use my pen to release the tension in my veins.
A creative rite to save my soul.
My identity is something I can't shake,
And that frustrates me deeply.
Often times, I am defined by the approval of others,
Oh, where did I go wrong?
Perhaps I can say that all this uncertainty defines me,
Perhaps I can say I lost who I was through all the tears that I've cried in vain
The water drowned my soul, I suppose,
But I'm still alive.
In all honesty, I don't know who I am,
And God knows all too well.
Maybe that counts for something, but as of now I can never tell.
You ask me how I define myself,
Well, I am who I am.
A living, breathing excuse for departure,
But here I am tonight.