Anything Short of Being Me

I lie on my now made bed at a total loss for words and hope And holding myself upright Trying to block any thought From escaping me More especially the one that bothers me the most Which would constitute the words you tell me And those told by my dreams And my minds simple illusions Though the faces are blurred I can tell from the frames who they aren’t And that alone may help in the detection of their identities I know what I am embarking in now Makes no more sense than my confused state And as I wither away like the fresh flowers by my bedside I feel as though I have no real choice or decision That all this is beyond the reach of whatever power I might possess And my own life lies outside the stretch of my palm It sags my heart And complicates my conscious Fills my head with childlike fantasies That only bring me great headaches as they collide with what I know to be the truth And what I know to be likely and realistic Vows to live for only the moment and the moment within Oh what idiocy! For I am aware that will never come to play So long as my mind continues To run and filter things ahead of me So that even as I type these words half of it is else where I cud pen a thousand words But none of the cud completely In any way Cover the madness that lays in thine own head Fairy tales are always the perfect settings The story is already told And the drama already written It’s simple following of what is there But having to write a story of your own and constantly redefine it That is pure demanding Overwhelming thoughts and ideas overlap Each with an identify fierce and of its own I wish that I had none of them That I hadn’t possessed the greatest gift of thought and feeling That I cud be anything less that human Anything short of being me