I am, not be, something I can not see.
And it turns me tormented to face
my own reflection, over and over,
closer and closer, to cutting that nose
from my face. And laughing as I do so.
But instead he mimics my lack of conviction.
And he winds fictions of me falling slow,
trying to hold the curves of the world as I do so.  

Even Atlas' strength was humbled by it;
The weight of this world could never have
been on my shoulders. But thats where I feel it sits.
So selfish, so arrogant. I am but not be.
I do not ever tell of this weight on my neck.
Instead in quiet torture I find my own respect.