I put my pen to paper
as I leave half my worries behind

Vomited the words I once engulfed,
as I realised,
they were always mine.

i am not sure who i am
or if i ever will be

i'm asked all the time
and it only cements
how little i understand myself

but should i?

Am I the way I think, the way I dress,
Or the way I speak?
Or am I defined by the way
I broke my own heart through rotten adversities?

Am I kind, am I bitter, or am I stuck in between?
Does everyone remember the ways I hurt them
Or the ways I healed?
Am I shaped by my destiny
Or by the paths I carve myself?
Will I make a difference,
Or will my life just quietly pass?

Am I the things I hate, am I the things I love?
Am I the things I do, or the things I think of?
Am I the words I write or the scenes I paint?
What happens if I stay? What happens if I go?

When they look at me, do they see a face or a heart?
Am I the way I spurn or the way I laugh?

Am I this? Am I that?
I am a thousand things,
everything plays a part.

The art of not caring does not come easily to me
I constantly think about who I am and who I ought to be
I could think all day about what was and what’s about to come
I have spent days stuck in my thoughts,
there have been days when I got nothing done

The art of not caring is hard to master
I just spent hours thinking if I’m too slow,
should I go faster?

I care a lot, I care too much
About things too trivial and things too big,
I think about everything.
The spots on my face, the shape of my teeth.
The dress I wear, the way I speak.

I am in the middle of caring as I write this,
I heard someone talk on the phone,
They got the best paying job, with the best team, with the best firm.
I saw someone else post a picture about a party
someone was out on lunch with a friend,
I see everyone finding someone who cares about them

I sit here caring about things wondering if it’ll ever be any different.  
I care about myself, I care about my friends and I care about the world
In exchange, I get a feeling that I might be a loser.
I paint things nobody sees, I write words nobody reads,

I dread what I do, I dread what I don’t
I feel like I am always falling behind, I don’t even know what I want
The art of not caring is something I should learn
I would be happy with a B, I don’t need an A
If I carry pieces of caring too much with me,
I would be okay.

As much as I care about if I care too much,
and I want to let that go,
As much as I want to care less,
As much as I want to be someone else,
I hold on to it,
I keep caring.
It has taken me this far, It has stuck by me.
Maybe I was born with the art of caring deeply,
Maybe it will take me places meant for me.
Maybe I will live differently.

Smoke fills my lungs as I walk down this lonely path,
where I was going… no one knows,

“Oh fur so white, so bright, so bright,”
“What?”
I would simply say and walk away into the unknowingness left of yesterday.

“Oh eyes so light, so white, so white,”
“What?”

I scrambled to catch my breath, not pausing to see what was left.
But down this uncharted path, unbeknown to the lost sheep,
was the wrath of the eyes lurking throughout wilderness,
longing to covet her wool all to themselves….

Waiting for one misstep into the cool morning light to trample upon the lost sheep at last.

I am more than
the traces I rub against,
the dust I've gathered,
the crumbs in my pockets,
the mud on my shoes,
the dirt under my nails,
the gritty sleep in my eyes,
the deep wax in my ears,
the grease in my hair,
the bruises I carry,
the scars I bear.

I am almost the songs I sing.

The visitors help

her search, can anyone find --


her as she once was?