There's this repulsive need to be anything other than myself.
Without finding myself stuck between the space of,
what would I turn into and who I could be.
To be made of flesh is a mortification.
Still I crave the compassion from others
made the same way.
I'm yearning for something I can not reach.
Something that is not real.
My brain is a graveyard of all my hopes to be
who I should.
There's this intolerable need to be more than myself.
More than human, something worthy.
So I won't be so impassive towards my own reflection.
I'm ragged and uneven, I feel i deserve it all
but, in small micro portions.
Maybe I shall change, with hopes of giving my pain definition.