A question that arise

A question that comes 

A question that disappear

But always stays and says: "Who are you?"

 

In a sense, IT is a joke,

In a sense, IT is funny,

In a sense, IT reality...

For I am, "Who" but yet... who am I?

 

To be told, years and years so tell a person who he or she is.

To be told, living is the answer to who he or she is.

To be told, surviving is the response to who he or she is.

But really, am I "Who?"

 

Years of misery and teasing,

Changes a person,

Creates a person.

Destroys a person.

 

I was me before but not I am not.

Inside, I ponder the question,

Outside, I respond to the question:

"Who are you?"

"I am who." ... am I?

 

No, my name is not who but rather pronounced that way.

So thus in a sense, "who" is me, a mysterious person who people own knows...

From the facade I put on...

For not even me do I know...

Forever lost in myself...

Forgetting who I am...

Forging a new "who"...

Finding a new person...

Figuring out the new personality.

 

Every night, I hear a sound.

Every time, I think a thought.

Every day, I listen carefully,

For the echo of my name, lost in the depth of the night,

Lost endlessly, echoing from trees to trees... "whooo..."

 

Sometime the past cannot be put behind...

Without a price, life is useless...

To forget my past, is to forget myself,

For I am the past...

So do you know if I am ... Who?