Just when you think you have some concept of who you are and what you are about... you find all is topsy turvy (how the hell do you spell topsy turvy).
What am I?
Am I the things that I think that I am?
Am I the person other people think I am?
Will I be the person other people want me to be?
Or will I be the person that I want to be?
For every part of me that slips into place... with a gentle click that tells you it's right,
There seems to be a piece lifted away by spirit fingers.
Where do the lost pieces of me go?
Who takes them and what do they do with me?
Are there voices that belong to thoughts,
Busy cobbling together the person that they want me to be...
Working only with the pieces of me that are lost.
I am standing in a myst...
hollaring with voiceless breath...
"I am over here...
you missed some parts...
the important bits are still here...
... in the myst."
In time, the voicelessness must give way to sound.
Sound will become words.
In the air.