Surrounded by walls
of stone and bulletproof glass,
I stare into the space
trying to make sense out of
my demons and find epiphanies in the
imaginary smudges on the glass.
Jumping from one purpose to another,
I forcibly maneuver into a mold,
but it's never enough.
I chisel away my edges until my
coarseness is smoothed.
Nothing fits.
I detest myself for softening those pieces.
I rummage through the dust to find
the person I was to become who I am.
But I don't know who I am.
Was I a hero or a villain?
Are there such things as Hero and Villain?
One gets the victory,
another has the better story.
Whose story parallels mine?
Am I fated to be the hero or villain of my story?
It might be too late, but I don't know.
I. Don't. Know.
YOU ARE READING
Caffeine and Me
PoetryA collection of poetry ranging from brain farts to exploring why I bother getting up in the morning. Most likely there is some form of caffeine to keep me awake (or alert) enough to type my thoughts out regarding my depression, struggles within my d...
