People ask who I was, who I am, who I used to be, 

I wonder why ask something so stupid, so silly?

 

Who I am is hidden behind pain and mistrust,

for me its not easy to just give it up.

 

Perhaps it is for better, perhaps it is for worse,

I mean one day, mark my words, we all end up in a hearse.

 

You know what, I think, Just this once, I'll give you an insight,

be warned, my mind is full of crazed thoughts; perhaps in that you may find light.

 

So what does it mean to be me for me?

It means secret pain, hidden hope, and misery.

 

I'm filled to the brim with heartbreak, sin, and mistakes,

I talk nonsense to hide all that I forsake.

 

I hide behind curtains, veils, and mirrors,

in hope that no one will share my horrors.

 

Things I have seen, and things I have done,

haunt my everyday from dusk until dawn.

 

I beg forgiveness for some things, for others I simply ponder,

I really don't think my mind is much of a wonder.

 

I'm unsure, I'm ambitious, I'm an ass, and I talk to much,

but really, how perfect can you be when you can't even trust the people you sit with at lunch?

 

Don't mistaken me for someone prone to complain,

ninety percent of the time this is hidden from people who all think I am insane.

 

Normal is bland, so I slay it with dignity,

I am something far more creative, created with no symmetry. 

 

Don't pitty me, in fact hate me for this, but I'll say it anyways, 

I think everyone hates me, but do as they may.