identity

It’s a searing, wordless pain to be unsure of my own identity Lost in the day to day, shackled by the ins and outs of my stoic life Mirrors look back at me, a hazily dreampt structure of a face without a name Leeching naivety distorts common sense, never revealing a world of cloaked wicked intentions I study myself until my eyes crack, in search of a semblance of recognition Though it seems I am just and idea crafted by a bleeding heart