For the longest time, I remember wanting to change my name

And it hit me today,

When I realized just how glad I am

With the name that has been given to me,

That there is no point to a name.

Out of 26 letters (at least in this country)

6 were selected, in a semi-random order

To give me a name.

But not my identity.

For in fact, a name, or letters, or even numbers for that fact,

Can’t identify a soul. Or person.

Only actions can do that,

and that’s the truth.

A name is letters; an identity is you.

So whether I’m Justin, or Joe

Is beyond me, but what I do know

Is: I… am me.


Stark sheets, same ol’ blue and blue-er walls

With the sound of nothing all around me

And in my ears.

I’m 18, it’s Friday evening

Yet here I am, sitting.

Sitting in a room, with two guitars

A laptop,

And it’s fucking boring.