Who am I?

I have a lot on my mind.

I'm lying.

I have nothing on my mind

but the question of "Who am I?" that bounces around in my head

like a ball that can't keep still. My lungs breathe in deep.

I call myself a writer, but is what I write really worth reading?

A story coming out in waves that interrupt the silence that covers the dark cavity

of a mind so strong and willing to take on the worse.

Is it worth living?

In the shadow of others and not show who I really am inside

Instead just walk around like that happy part of me has died and yet here I am

afraid. Just an empty body with nothing left to give.

Blank slates of empty promises engraved within the walls of my skull.

It's hard to be yourself in a society where being different singles you out like a disease.

I constantly struggle with finding out who I am.

With no one giving me my freedom, I have to find another way to access that part of me

That part of me that wants to break free and showcase what endless possibilites are available to see