And They Will Start to Smudge

a poem tehehehehe.

Identity crisis is my middle name. As for my first and last, they don’t matter. They’re attached to nothing but two legs, two arms and a torso. Just another body. Without significance. Without a voice. They won’t be remembered for more than a decade. When such decade has died, so will they. They will turn to dust that lies upon the floorboards of their bedroom, where they spent most of their life. Ha. Spent. That word brings to much justice to the act; wasted is much more suiting. To my surprise this moment isn't being completely wasted, as I am writing this. A much bolder act than most of mine. But even this, probably won’t mean s**t in the end. Because if i take the same train down the same fucked up twisted tracks i usually do, these words won’t see the light of day. I’ll come back to them later today, and they won’t look the same as they do now. Now, they are fresh and new. But as time steals seconds from the day, I will force my eyes on these words, over and over and over again. And they will start to smudge.