Here’s a poignant poem about identity, by Alisha, in Different Truths.
Consciously lost,
I’m lost because I wanna be,
I’m lost on purpose.
There’s no identity thief.
Don’t wanna reach the destination,
Don’t wanna walk the crossroads.
I’m driving through the city
with raindrops falling on my windshield,
The air is cold and the night is old,
I take wrong turns on purpose,
I just don’t wanna go home.
But why? I’m screaming inside,
“someone just tells me why?!”
Stop playing this cruel joke,
It’s just not funny anymore.
Driving through the streets of darkness
I drive through every corner of my mind.
Where is the place where I belong?
Just an inch of space to call my own
I’ve mapped out the layout of the town.
Marked all the bruises and broken ground.
Searched within the silence of my tears,
But without any success. I’m crumbling in fear.
It’s starting to get apocalyptic in here.
I purposefully hide the keys that unlock my miseries.
What am I trying to hide from myself?
What subconscious secret am I trying to forget?
The water rises to the core of my thirsty bones,
Just when it’s about to quench me, it disappears.
I’ll tear the insides of myself
Just to find my lost self,
But that’s the irony.
I just realised I already have an identity.
It’s being ‘lost’.
©Alisha Fatima
Photos from the Internet.
#Poem #SearchOfIdentity #Tears #StreetOfDarkness #SubconsciousSecret #Identity #Irony #DifferentTruths
Alisha is a recent undergraduate in Literature, Communication, and Psychology. She loves words, music, movies, and animals. Her love for poetry emerges from music. Lyrics are for her, the poetry of the modern world. Her voice takes shape through writing and becomes her medium of expression to communicate. She hopes to help people by writing words they can relate to.
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Thank you for the compliment. But just FYI, this is a poem. It has nothing to do with ‘science’ or what’s technically correct. The brain may be measured in ‘terabytes’, but this is not a scientific article. It’s a poem. And poetry is all about poetic license. ‘Inches’ doesn’t have to literally mean inches. That’s the beauty of poetry.