I was an empty slate once
And young
Now I am filled with
With what exactly?
With what that makes up
My identity
With fragments that make up
The way I love
With what that attracts
And all those things that I discard
And all those things that I want
But don't have
That I'm worth
But beyond reach
And I sit
Upon dying grass
Selfishly for my own needs
They suffer a little bit more
I sigh
Because the slate that I am
Filled with unknowns and fragmentations
All long for balance and question and doubt
Every step I take
Wondering if it leads me closer or further
From the harmony
I unrealistically, desperately seek
Which I know will inevitably lead to the dead end and void that I still feel everyday