Tired

A tightened heart.

A fearful thought.

The fleeting images of what might be and what might not.

Small details of a large decision, and a path you are not sure is yours, and are pushed away from by enemies as well as friends.

An owner that watches over you with a glare, sometimes smiles at you in pride.

You lay at the feet of an unknown fate, a future that holds betrayal and yet you wait for pleasure in its stead.

My heart is now smaller than the drop of a tear, more fragile than the peace of mind of a deserted lover.

My dreams are pieces, small and sharp, broken on the sidewalk. I  try to collect them with my bare hands, but they make them bleed.

My past is lost in memory, and my presence is a deep hole that sucks out the life of me.

I am a torn being, neither dedicated to the creator, nor a true slave to its creations.

I am less than human, and almost an angel. Or perhaps a demon, wasting the gift of existence in the pursue of anything but true happiness.

I know of death, and I ignore it.

And I know of heaven and hell, and yet I turn my back on it.

I am something, or someone.

My mirror reflection is however a stranger.

She, or he, or perhaps an it.

I stare at them with reddened eyes, and they stare back in anger.

They taunt me my ignorance, laugh at my pain, and torture my weakness.

I am what I am, I am who I am.

And I am tired.

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