questions, oh so many by: Orange
Nobody knows a thing about me. They say that they do, but how can this be?
They ask me no questions, they just walk on by, with an occasional smile, or maybe a “Hi.”
They watch how I move and listen to me speak, but when they look at me, is “Who is he really?”
What they think?
I’ve a face and a style, sometimes I smile, but what really lies beneath?
A killer, a friend, an individual with no end, or perhaps a beginning waiting to be seen?
The question then becomes, what is “me”? Is a person ever able to know?
Is it an entity that does or does not grow? “Who am I?!” is the question we seek,
For the answer lies just out of reach. We can define our likes and dislikes and friends,
But who I am truly knows no friend, for others have likes and dislikes the same,
But all these can be defined by a name.
An expressions of thought that mirrors my own I cannot find, for I know not what is my own mind.
This “me” of sorts is elusive and sly, not to be pinned down or made to say “Hi.”
It does what it wants and lives without fault, for many a flaunt and many a taunt,
Until one day when its luck runs through, or it just gets tired being part of two.
Then “me” becomes a part of “I,” and a whole new life can be seen far and wide.
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