This is me.
But who am I?
Am I the facade I put up for others?
Am I a dreamer? Am I an author?
Do I deserve such a title?
My name is not Rosaline Forst, it is not Liza Jane.
My name is unnamed, unknown,
For what is a name if not an adjective, a describer.
Does it not describe someone?
Does it not describe the way they cry themselves to sleep?
Does it not describe their hidden desires found in the reaches of a book?
Does it not describe someone who doesn't even know their name?
For what does a name mean?
Is it a word to convey emotion?
For love or an earth shattering cry of grief?
Do we know why there are names?
Do we know ourselves enough to name others?
Names have layers, the question is not "what is your name?" it is "who are you?"
For they can mean two very different things.
YOU ARE READING
This Is Me
PoesieHow life can suck, be not good, no fun, and confusing but full of love. How one person describes themself and their life with few words, lots of emotion, and deep thoughts(sometimes). The complex and unique words, explain one life out of billions. ...
