I am not me
I am a tapestry of the things I've seen
I am a poorly rendered image
of the reflection of my past

I am everyone I've ever met
rolled into a pie crust
beaten into bread crumbs
and ground into a saw dust

I am not me
I'm a victim of society
a bystander to my own reality
I look in the mirror and nothing I see

What does it mean to exist?
is it to only ask that question?
perhaps to ponder ones existence
is proof enough of existence