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Poem

My own reflections are making me weak,
My own deceptions are making me bleak.
My own honesty is making me a mockery, 
My own light is making me dark.

It is taking me over;
It has breached my cover.
It is neither tremendous nor tranquil,
I am consumed by my craving for whimsy.

The tranquility it offers me—
I am way above this buttery flee.
The bliss it comes with—
I am neither in my business nor between its sharp teeth.

I will not urge you to go easy on me,
I will not ask you for a serene salvation,
I will not take your heavenly throne,
And make it my own.

The share meant for me is set aside;
I only want that part.
No one can truly replace anyone,
Yet I am a stranger to who I have become.

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