Poem... Quid... Facere... Debeo?
Tw: sui ideation implied, insanitas
The only thing that awaits me,
at the end of these pages,
a prophecy awakening,
and death retaking...
These souls are broken,
need shaping,
need a hand to make them,
and I was one of those souls,
mistaken?
Correct,
no others would the same ways act,
no others could do what was needed,
no others could fight for the weakest.
"Why not death?"
A question I had to ask,
answers were not given?
"An option which is not mine to take."
These questions break me,
awaken this fear,
prophecies fulfiled or burning, desecrated will be?
Are we really supposed to exist?
Too weak,
feelings destroy, anxieties,
mind wandering these spaces unseen,
am I even me?
Broken mirrors,
fixed?
a portal opens, a vortex, a glitter of light,
but it blinds me.
Is truth,
subjective?
Is negation,
acceptance?
Am I really me?
Breaking mirrors makes the structure weaker,
replacing is not easy,
needs a specialist.
Do those exist?
Not here,
land of masses without power, decreed by the rulers,
law makes them weak, creation, raising, to never see,
they are just pawns to feed the mouths of innumerous stupid kings.
Who can fix?
Creation decides,
sacrifice?
My life?
Hard choices, difficult answers, questions broken in itself they were written wrongly,
what the fuck is wrong with me?
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?
Fixing is itself an error,
I was made to be this way,
broken, in constant terror,
awaiting the day the hurt will end...
To be unallowed to rest,
until it
repaired gets.
