The Pathetic Poet

Play the Song of My Identity

Am I hipster?

Am I emo?

Just another imposter,

That isn't a hero.

Just an entity.

Trapped between two worlds.

Do I believe in reality?

Should I take the scientists' words?

I am not innocent and pure.

Nor am I fearsome and dangerous.

I have no cure.

But nor am I treacherous.

Am I popular?

Am I lonesome?

I can't be called unpopular.

I can't be called loathsome.

I sit here every hour.

Wondering who I could be.

Without any power.

Without the key.

I stand before the gate

Of my true feelings and memories.

I am unable to rate

Any of the melodies.

The music keeps playing.

The songs of life and death.

Few notes slaying.

With each and every breath.

Etudes of hardship.

Sonatas of beauty.

Trills of friendship.

Come with a duty.

I don't know who I am.

Everything is counting down.

I don't know who I am.

All I have is this body and a gown.

I play and I listen.

To every piece that come and go.

There be no division,

Between each measure there is to show.

The tempo shows certain events.

Allegretto may slice,

Into slim segments.

Quick enough that there be no price.

Ritardando will take its time.

To show you what life has to offer.

Then in its prime,

The end will be the slaughter.

I cannot find the piece,

that holds my memories captive.

Until the release,

I will become adaptive.

I laugh at every rest.

I will not cease.

I only wish the best,

Until I find peace.

When will I move on?

When will I find out who I am?

I'll use every pawn,

And make a grand slam.

I listen to every piece that was composed

Until I find serenity.

I will feel exposed,

Until I play the song of my identity.