i don't believe you anymore when you say you care

You are not the first,
Nor will you be the last
To neglect that wretched child of humanity,
That poor soul named Ambition.
Many will find them in the strangest of places,
At work, while out on a walk, even within their own homes.
We are all parents to Ambition.
Many worry that the appetite of this child is without measure,
That they have no food to give it.
Then they decide to abandon it,
Hoping that a kinder, gentler soul will find it and care for it.
I found Ambition shivering and alone in my classroom.
I will not starve them.
I will take them with me and feed them all they can eat.
Ambition is clever.
They can find food in times of plenty and in times of hardship.
We must care for ambition, and if you will not, I will.

We each have found
                     that hole,
that keeps us under our own
           perspective of life.

Till that one who grabs
            that handle,
and digs for you.
    digging deeper, wider.


On the precipice of falling
into this void of there making,
              they stare deeply.
Looking at him asking.  
                                
          "Why,

"What is a hole, if its sides
                         are not vertical.

Looking perplexed at the words
                of this stranger...

"Not every hole has to be yours,
            "But when we work together,
"We create the steps to walk upon.

"You have to dig deep to find the way out,

Were all have our own holes,
               sometimes burying us deep.
But when a voice of another speaks of
                                         there moments,
and how they fell deeper.
It only takes those steps of thought
               to eventually realize
that not ever hole buries us.

But we can eventually step out.

Where does the throws of
                        me start,
I'm an integrated silhouette
among the many shades
that walk in the light.

I'm not a vertical
                        abomination,
standing on my own two legs
before I began the humiliation
of crawling in this life...

I gaze upon the  gritty
                                reflections
of what is dead but lights up
the darkness above my eyelids..

Where does the throws of
                        me start,
Is there a purpose to my
existence am I just a flicker..

Waiting to eventually dim out..

Within a casket of echoes
does the mirage of
      truth become stained
into a conciseness of delusions.
                 But still they are slaves..

Altercations of past inclinations
that merit, reflection of
                          misguided minds.
But with no morals they digress,
      standing on illusions of nothingness.

Where another doesn't tread,
                      fed to others delusions
of negativities prompting lies upon
lie with no merit only golden goblets
drinking upon the weakness of others.

See!
The eye can't see itself.
But it can
see.