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
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