A part of me it rests,
the other is at odds.
With me my own self
being someone I’m not.
I’ve cause and concern,
the confusion is ripe,
that for a soul I would
exude my soul’s might.
Low and behold I don’t
know who I would be
if not a fighter for angst
of what in those I do see.
For life precious delicate,
pure and budding for joy
that would be solvent to
those bent and destroyed.
But I have been split down
the middle now do look
at the blood on my hands;
I have bled, my life I took.
So I will follow the trim
along the room now where
I walk now by myself now
not giving anyone a stare.
For the reflection I have
known all my entire life
will give me a cause to
entertain my own fight.
I am but flesh and bone.
My construction must be
not to exert any blue print
without first fixing me.