It's me; it's you.

Hi,
 I'd like to introduce myself,
 but..
 Who am I to do?
 I mean,
I'm a random person walking down the street,
 a fellow passenger who may have once shared your seat,
 I'm a hand that breaks hearts,
 And I'm a broken heart's beat.
 I'm a tune out of rhythm,
 I'm an outcast.
 I'm just a.. teenager
 whose love would never last

. so..
 Hi.
 I am the disappointment in your father's eye,
 But I'm also the anger that lingers in yours.
 I am Armageddon,
 I am civil wars.
 I am industry,
 I am agriculture.
 I'm a third world country,
 with a disaster from the nature.
 I am gunpowder
 I am the clash of swords,
 A blasphemous laughter,
 and the cruelest of words.

But,
 Hi.
 I am also the smile of a stranger on the road,
 I'm the warmth of the feeling of being understood,
 I am your won battles, your truthful accusations,
 your valid arguments and cheerful conversations,
 I'm your dream castles, I'm the future generations.
 I'm a happy thought,
that floats inside your head,
 I'm your favorite quote,
 I'm the books that you read.
 I'm Your hidden affection,
and the words you haven't said.

 I'd like to introduce myself,
 So I walk down the aisle,
 now knowing what to do,
 I've been rehearsing for a while,
 and you saw it coming, too,
 so I stutter, smile and say:
 "H-Hi, I am you."

The swing without a name

a nameless kid,
when his age was three,
an old oak tree was his only friend.
around its neck he tied a rope,
a black rotten tire on its dangling end.
 for when the wind would whistle;
 and birds would sing,
 he'd perch his little self on his lonely swing
 move his legs for back and forth,
his sight gets lost on the horizon north.
and the tree would always hold him tight,
 a shade from the sun,
 and a shelter from the night.
 he climbed with his hopes up on it very high.
 a safe haven for him from the pain and the lies,
 up far away from the world and its shame,
 he'd just stay there:
 a kid without a name.

 well, time goes on,
 our kid is seventeen,
 and the tree had grown old,
 and its leaves less green,
 unpleasant to sit at, unpleasant to be seen,
 they had to cut it off for its wood to be sold,
 naive and unaware, the little boy tried to hold,
but his soul went broken and his body has fallen
his friend was dead and his swing was stolen,
its leaves were burnt,
a one last flame,
the oak tree abandoned
 the boy without a name.

 a nameless man when his age is thirty,
 his eyes look tired,
 his clothes dirty,
 followed one road to see where it led,
 and just right there,
 where all the paths end
he found an oak tree he once called a friend.
around its neck he tied a rope,
on its dangling end a hangman's noose,
 for when the hurricane hits,
 and the alarm would ring,
 he himself would be a lonely swing.
a man without a dream and a stolen hope.
 his neck held tight by a black old rope,
 his legs would move for back and forth,
the bugs would feed on his rotten cloth,
 and the birds would feast right on his eyes,
 open in the air to be eaten by his lies:
a nameless corpse, never meant to be found,
 not to be burnt or put deep in the ground
 neither baptized with water nor flame,
 a corpse without a pride, a swing without a name.