Who am I?
a question we as a lost people try to derive from
but the answer never truly comes.
how do we explain our pain,
the nights we lay alone in silence, the nights we question whether we're sane,
but we drive on across life as if everything is fine
even when we know we're walking across a fragile line.
The heavy weight on our feet, the heart in our chest that pounds to its own beat.
what we feel has become too strange, too unfamiliar, too unreal
so that we hide behind a curtain of secrecy and fear, left hoping we'll never be revealed.
not who am I.
not who are you.
not who are we.
but who do we spend our lives to be…