The ironic thing about life is that you are a different person to everyone you meet To some, you're quiet To others, you never stop talking
Some remember you for your kindness Others for the time you walked away You are a villain in someone's story You're a hero in another's
To most You're just a passing thought A name... they once knew You don't exist... as one person
You will never truly know yourself the way others do You will never hear your own laughter the way someone else does
You will never see the way your absence lingers in a room you use to fill To yourself you are just you But in reality You're a thousand different stories None of which, you will ever get to read