Perspective Shift

I walk into a room filled completely with mirrors, the room shining from glass.
Framed with heavy cast iron and brass.
Reflections displaying each and every possibility of me.
Yet, within' this room filled infinitely of me.
Who I am I'm unable to see.
Which leads me to the question, am I free?

I have no shackles on my hands or feet.
But when I look into my own eyes, who I can be, is all I see.
So is this reflection actually me?

Perhaps I am a slave to thoughts unthought, a dream unsought, words left unsaid.
Am I avoiding my own person?
If so, would this make me alive, but not living, so dead?
The very essence of question leads to such depth of mind, -
Where I find that it's that very depth I dread.
Or maybe the love, yearn, and longing for that depth, instead.
All these riddles, spiraling in my head.

Glaring into the mirror, my reflection seems expecting of me.
Are my choices already defined, inevitably?

Does the mirror show what lies behind our eyes?
Or is it just a disguise, a body of lies.
Does it reflect now hollow cries.
Or does it rather suggest, such hollow lives.
It seems to mock, and prey on young hollow minds.

If I close my eyes, will the reflection fade?
Is questioning it, what makes me a slave?
Enraged; am I, or is the reflection caged?

Holding my head.
I cant take it, crash, boom, until the reflection's dead.

I walk into a room filled completely with frames, the floor covered in glass.
Frames made of heavy cast iron and brass.
For fear of pain, I’m unable to pass.
Where are the mirrors? The only thing I feel able to ask.
Within this room I’m consumed, with nothing resembling, and everything, other than me.
Which leads me to the question, am I free?

They say I made it.
And that they're proud.
I did it, despite my crowd.

I laugh.

…Yeah I made it.
I made it through lost hopes.
Failed dreams.
Residual nightmares, memories of alcoholics and crack feins.

So stressed, with no escape.
Like having no eye lids, in a room made of light beams.
Night screams.

Tossing and turning, no sleep.
Stomach aching, empty fridge, no food to eat.
Showing kindness, being forced to fight is what kindness has reaped.

But yeah… I made it.

Still vomiting at the slight hint of the smell.
The bottom of a bottle, to me resembles the depth of a well.
I remember living in hell.

Bottles rolling to a stop.
I remember saying fuck the world -
But only when I lost hope, that I would make it to the top.

Admiring the strength of rocks,
While feeling stuck in a box.
Put on a façade and gained so many haters.
I remember walking around insecure, despite the presence of cops.

But yeah… I made it.

I remember family turning on me.
Fake friends and liars feeding me testimony -
Knowing, I knew they were phony.
I remember feeling lonely.

Just so enraged, but forced to bottle it.
So it grew like a beast in a cage.
And all before I was legal of age.

Heavy eyes, sleepless nights.
So much anger, embracing the cursing and fights.
But yet, found peace within the chaos.
Like a small star, shining forth through the darkness of night.

But yeah… I made it.

I remember laughter turned to sadness.
And laughter from sadness.
Forgetting about the moment, allowing it to pass us.

See I understood…
No I understand, that no one else could ever understand my plight.
Because at the end of the day, it is me I fight.
Finding reason within’ turmoil, maybe that’s the source of my might.

Asking questions, receiving only answers to questions, -
With questions more deep.
What level of sanity would be expected of me to keep.

My own thoughts led me to dig a hole so deep.
People telling me I can do it, and they're there for me.
But never holding out a hand for me to reach.
Life may be a lesson, but it is ourselves who we teach.

They say I made it.
And that they're proud.
I did it despite my crowd.

I laugh.

…Yeah, I made it.

What choice did I have.

Dark streets lit by dimming headlights, hanging over head.
Heads nod in accordance with beats, roaring from cars passing.
Sweat dripping from the heat, the sound of small children panting.
Feet pattering, playing on concrete.

Slow, a car creeps.
The sound of the highway in the background, subtle like soft creeks.
Tired cheeks from laughter, mindless of the now or hereafter.
A street requirement tonight unseen.
As the celebration of another year is achieved.
A window, darker than the fading night, rolls down.
Out of which a bright light gleams.

Flashes, only rivaled by the fourth of July are seen.
Screeches and screams.
Small children, mothers, and all of those in-between.
Running for cover, bracing, the sound of thunder cracking. Is this a dream?

From the thunder sounds a swarm of bees, quickly passing by.
Black marks in pursuit of the source, until it fades away.
I rise, tears in their eyes, many begging, yelling, asking why.
Glance over, a body on the floor. Immersed in a pool of red.
Friends and family gather, a woman holding up his head.

I don’t know him, but he looks mid to late teens.
He never even made it to the door. Lost dreams.
I cry for help, but no bodies acknowledging my roar.
He’s gone, another young soul lost to the streets.
It’s silent, I glance down and observe his wounds.

Riddled with gun shots. His entire body’s consumed.
I place my hand on the woman, attempting to soothe.
She pays me no attention, just shrugs and mourns.
I feel a weight on my chest; it’s too much I can’t bear it.
I’m crying, but no body seems to hear it.

I take a closer look at this man. My heart stops.
No …This couldn’t be…

It’s me.

I pick the petals off a rose, asking the questions that rattle my sanity.
Is it but a mere thorn, or the path led toward a love lost tragedy.
Can I even trust my own thoughts, or will it make me but another war torn casualty.
Hiding in a state of admiration, like a psychological vanity.

Does it blind me from the demons that are standing in front of me?
Are my reflections just opposing decisions, pointing and making fun of me?
My own thoughts leave me trapped in a state of eternal torture and pain, is this me?

Or am I really trapped in a state of denial?
Doing everything to keep myself from emotional revival.

But no, that couldn’t be -
…Well, there is that possibility.

But why is it that these questions do so much damage to me.
Is it because I hold them in, knowing that the answers I don’t want to see.
Or is it because I already know the answers.
And I’m refusing to believe that once again, the victim is me.

Well no, that couldn’t be -
…But, there is that possibility…

The lightning crashes, cracks, and booms.
The observer is reduced into ashes, with eyes like full moons.
And oh what of thoughts, now like typhoons.
Free at last, from humanities ignorant tombs.
Spread faster than mirages, in a sea of sand dunes.
Striking fear from the unknown, like spears from harpoons.

Within the eyes of those virgin to question, hope looms.
Small children, dreams of goblins and goons.
The clock ticks effortlessly as time moves on.
Yet seems constant at half past noon.
Are we coming or going? I guess we'll know soon.

Seasons of change, new flowers blossom, and bloom.
On death ears, null are the most magnificent of tunes.
Doom.

Yet, within the chaos of the storm.
A center of calm where it remains warm.
True despair changes form -
Perception, changes the "norm."
The rugged becomes worn,
And the firm are then torn.
As all obstacles are no more,
And those faced with death, are reborn.

The lightning crashes, cracks, and booms.
The lighting strikes and conquers the darkness with such light
And we mourn for the loss of the night.
But rejoice, because now we have the vision to take flight.

Defiant, they fall like the season.
Daring to be different, but is this a just reason?
Colorful in separation, but refuses to let go.
Indifferent to the rain, sleet, hail, and the snow.
The original perseveres, though the same just come, and go.

And soon enough, awe inspired, the rest strive for the same.
A forest of humanity, all with unique names.
All the same in there difference, with individual fame.
Oh, at last! Indifferent to the seasons, and how they change.

What a colorful world that would be.