What such a life will do to such imperfect people,
Carving its lines across them, like they were clay,
All malleable and soft; so easily changed.
So easily reversed from shining to shade.
I feel weak. I feel worried and worked.
I feel your honest hand on my strings,
Plucking and playing by instinct alone.
I feel worthless and lost. Guilty.
Ineffectual, with idle hands
That perform no fruitful task.
I want to act. I want to change something,
Or do that which none would ever ask;
Like today was a day fifteen years past,
When no life existed to stay my hand,
And I could drop everything; my life, my friends,
My world straight in to the sea, and let it sink away
Just so their was nothing left to focus on,
But a fearful friend facing that tragedy
That no burdened soul, no matter which,
Should ever encounter alone.
This is not this. This is not then. This is not them.
I repeat like a mantra, but the strings keep ringing.
The sleep evades me, and the grey is ever greying.
What such a life will do to such imperfect people.
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