Who am I really? Am I just a figment of my own imagination? Am I just a speculator waiting in my seat as the landscape is pulled right by me? Am I subconsciously sitting there, or am I a pen and paper, writing down all the surprises and tragedies of my life?
My life is placed at the stiff toe of a leather boot. The hard fabric rubs against my sides, bruising the soft, tender skin beneath it. Do I actually see this? Or does the leather obstruct my view, shading me from the horrors of the world?
They took my child innocence from me, they told me about war and I witnessed all the pain, suffering, and death of the many that did not deserve it. Did they make me who I am? Or is this the truth?
I was carefree, a lone singing bird in its cage, still singing despite the sneers and laughs beside me. I closed my eyes, hid under my covers, far away from the troubles and depression that knocked on my window. Do these covers provide me protection? Am I a coward hiding from the truth?
These questions run through my head, aimlessly trying to discover who I am, but the truth is that this question will remain unanswered for as long as I live. It is not other people who form me. I form myself; these questions I ask are who I am now. I hide from myself, scared on what I might find.
But now, I ask you, who are you… really?
My life is placed at the stiff toe of a leather boot. The hard fabric rubs against my sides, bruising the soft, tender skin beneath it. Do I actually see this? Or does the leather obstruct my view, shading me from the horrors of the world?
They took my child innocence from me, they told me about war and I witnessed all the pain, suffering, and death of the many that did not deserve it. Did they make me who I am? Or is this the truth?
I was carefree, a lone singing bird in its cage, still singing despite the sneers and laughs beside me. I closed my eyes, hid under my covers, far away from the troubles and depression that knocked on my window. Do these covers provide me protection? Am I a coward hiding from the truth?
These questions run through my head, aimlessly trying to discover who I am, but the truth is that this question will remain unanswered for as long as I live. It is not other people who form me. I form myself; these questions I ask are who I am now. I hide from myself, scared on what I might find.
But now, I ask you, who are you… really?
Brenda2468
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