I turn and stare into a mirror.
My reflection is never clear.
Because when I look into that frame,
The room behind me looks the same.
No prescence of my face within its glass.
Never once, have I seen myself, this will never pass.
I wonder what I have done,
To deserve this punishment.
Am I even alive?
Or am I a ghost?
Never to speak to the one I love the most.
I stare down at my fingers.
Searching for a transparency that lingers.
But I see nothing.
Am I even something?
Perhaps a speck of dust,
Full of lust,
Never to let any of it free.
What was I born to be?
I feel as if, everyone knows but, me.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 11:11 AM UTC
I turn and stare into a mirror.
My reflection is never clear.
Because when I look into that frame,
The room behind me looks the same.
No prescence of my face within its glass.
Never once, have I seen myself, this will never pass.
I wonder what I have done,
To deserve this punishment.
Am I even alive?
Or am I a ghost?
Never to speak to the one I love the most.
I stare down at my fingers.
Searching for a transparency that lingers.
But I see nothing.
Am I even something?
Perhaps a speck of dust,
Full of lust,
Never to let any of it free.
What was I born to be?
I feel as if, everyone knows but, me.
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