who are you,
really?you are not a name,
or a height, or a weight
or a gender
you are not an age
and you are not where you
are fromyou are your favourite books
and the songs stuck in your head
you are your thoughts
and what you eat for breakfast
on saturday morningsyou are a thousand things
but everyone chooses
to see the millions things
you are notyou are not
where you are from
you are
where you're going
and i'd like
to go there
too.
YOU ARE READING
deadroses || poetry
Poetry"we had a vision though, now we dead roses" now, why did she send them? these broken down, wilted, beat up, rotten-looking flowers.