Maybe it’s time to let the old ways die.
No,
Not a gentle passing,
Not a quiet fade.
I will **** them,
Lay them to rest beneath the weight of who I must become.

But who am I, really?
A pale imitation,
A shadow too scared to meet the light.

I count my failures like rosary beads,
Each one a prayer to the hollow god of “not enough.”

The mirror lies.
It shows the surface:
Eyes half-closed—
From exhaustion?
From fear?
Or to hide the split-second shame
That flickers behind them.

A thought, raw and bare,
That what I’ve done,
What I’ve built,
Will never be enough.

I despise my own reflection—
The way it clings to mediocrity,
The way it swallows excuses
And spits them back as reasons.

Yet here I am.
Climbing a wall with no summit,
Straining toward a light
I’m not sure exists.

But still I climb,
For fear of falling
Is greater than the hunger for rest.

And in the echoes of these empty days,
I wonder:
If the old ways must die,
Will I mourn them?

Or will I simply replace them
With a newer, sharper hatred,
Polished and waiting,
For the next time I need someone to blame?