I am many. I am few. 
I often, at times, don't have a clue
as to why I am this way. 

Awake alone, yet somehow not. 
The me that's me is now forgot. 
I live like this most every day. 

Memories start; I was just three. 
Strange was I, apparently. 
"Unique" was what they used to say. 

An artists soul. A manic mind. 
The sorrow in me to most was blind. 
And childhood turned a shade of grey. 

Recognizing my selves, from there I grew. 
Gave names to some of those I knew. 
Fear of self began to stray. 

Still today my panics arise
but confusion for those inside me dies. 
I let them run. I let them play. 

Sadness grips, it tears at me. 
For this, my mind will never free. 
So, I opt for other demons to slay.