The sounds in your head, the things that you dream
The way you’ve learned to understand and mean
The things you recall, your memories and all
The yesterdays you put away, your nightmares and the disarray
It all belongs to someone else, when you consider what you became
There’s almost nothing of yourself; your face has changed, you’re not the same
You’ve learned since you began to be,
to use the “I”s around you to make your me
But perhaps you took too much, too much.
In such a rush to be filled up, you let yourself become corrupt
Disrupted what there was of you, while trying to stay connected.
© 2008 henry toromoreno