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
And it’s fucking boring.