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Who I am.

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On rooftops and clouds,
I hide myself from the world
Wanting to be found
Begging to be found
And yet, how can I?
When no one ever looks,
When no one ever cares.


So sick, so sick.
Tired of your apathy
Tired of my agony
For only being second best


With so many masochistic games
And tears shed on my pillow,
I found I am lost
Or escaped?

Oh, Lord, please hear my prayers!
Refresh my memory,
I beg for identity
For I have lost track of who I am.

I know my name
I know my address
But not the weight of my soul
Not the taste of my own life.

Oh, but what I am
A blind man couldn’t miss
For what I am, dear Lord
Is such a depressing sight!

A once beloved beautiful flower,
Kept in a glass box
To be admired.
To be loved.



A once beloved beautiful flower,
Now blown away
Thrown away.
To wither.
To die.
- That, my Father is what I am.

A shooting star!
Filling up the vacancy of the universe
Ripping apart the nothingness
Igniting every corner
Giving life to every atom

There it goes so gracefully
Beautifully, perfectly, flawlessly.
And yet not a single soul looks up to see.
There it goes.





Again.







And again.











And again.


Invisible, unnoticed.
Bright but covered in darkness.
Beautiful but hidden by your ugly.
That is also what I am.

What. What. What.
Never a who, never a why.
Never a me, never an I.
Pathetic. Hopeless. Sad.
For never knowing who I truly am.





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