TW: Self-reflection, identity exploration, existential questioning, feelings of isolation, introspection.
(When you gaze into the mirror, finding no familiar face,
Only fragments of a soul, scattered in fragile grace, What remains of you? That sliver of essence, so faint, Clings to your being, a fragile, worn saint.
It fractures and fades in the myriad of masks you don, Lost among the countless faces that come and gone. After the shattering and the endless disguise,
Who are you, truly, beyond the eyes?)
I am a different person to different eyes,
Annoying to one, a source of surprise,
Talented to another, a quiet retreat,
Unknown by a lot, yet incomplete.
To some, I'm a storm in a restless sea,
A whirlwind of chaos, an unplanned spree.
To others, I'm a whisper in the night's calm,
A soft, gentle presence, a soothing balm.
In crowded rooms, I may drift through the haze,
A shadow in the corners, lost in a daze.
Yet in some spaces, my light will ignite,
Shining like stars in the vastness of night.
Who am I to myself, in this shifting sea,
A chameleon soul, both wild and free?
A reflection of roles that ebb and that flow,
A myriad of faces that come and go.
Each mirror reveals a fragmented design,
A mosaic of moments, both yours and mine.
I piece them together, a jigsaw so grand,
Yet the whole of my being remains out of hand.
In this dance of faces, I search and I roam,
A puzzle of pieces, yet feeling alone.
Who am I to myself, amidst roles that confound?
A seeker of self in a world spun around.
The quiet and clamor, the known and unknown,
All blend together, yet leave me alone.
In the echo of laughter, the silence of tears,
I wander through layers, through hopes and through fears.
So who am I, when the masks are all shed?
A question of essence, a path to be tread.
In the heart of the tempest, or stillness so grand,
I strive to discover who truly I am.
YOU ARE READING
Echoes of the Unspoken
PoetryHere lies a collection of poems, scattered like leaves, shared in the hope that someone might find solace and know they are not alone in their turmoil. Beware, for these poems are not for the faint of heart; they arise from the darkest recesses of m...
