For days at a time,
I replay the memories of this "life."
I wait for the individual moments,
each little second that passes by,
each minute that conjures up
an hour that creates the whole
of a wonderful, beautiful day,
to mean something more...
to make something more.
Do the separate pieces of life
make the heaps of a purposeful world?
Or am I even alone, where there
are all the ones in the sea beside me?
I have you, I have him, her-
but I don't yet truly have myself?
Is there a me to even have?
Some say life is dying; is there a life to die?
Maybe it's going on,
while I'm forgottten.
I own my days now, no parents
to hold my hand and keep me up through it all.
Someone please catch me, I see time's fall.
I want so badly to believe
each sad reflection
in the mirror
that shows the marks of written histroy
to become something more.
I search endlessly
for the motif of this life,
for the meaning to run my way,
any such symbols to fill each wondrous day.
There is NO such luck,
The dreams I used to know, under the bed, tuck.
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