Vast zonder identiteit
We have a number for a name.
Try to train a fucked up mind,
to like itself with the least
of love.
Every feeling faints, strands somewhere ashore.
This mind won't like itself no more.
It's what we're asking for.
All we're asking for,
is who we are.
A number for a name.
Turn away again,
from the grime and dirt and filth.
Blink to cry it out.
It's not our fault,
No caution has been known to ruin.
Ruined, in ruins.
Our, us ourselves, are in ruins.
Dreams irreparable,
faces replaceable,
voices incapable
of shouting.
All we are.
Don't know who we are.
Don't know who we became.
All we are,
all we have.
Is a number for a name.
Time unknown 10/01/17
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YOU ARE READING
The Puppeteer's Playground
PoetryWhere the hands have taken over, the place we're calling home. Poems about what matters and what doesn't, to whoever and whatever. Poetry book ||| Cover by me
