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.