Staggering aimlessly, blindly, I
reattempt. Clutching desperately at
the person I once was.
The person I believe I was.
I cannot resist when I say Iím improving.
Itís fun to admit that I am
not as flawless as I wish I could be.
But this is simply one step away from
the righteousness Iíve fought for,
Iím clinging to a lie I told myself.
I find no balance between
a falling back to ignorance
or a stumble into a vulnerable future.
I am just here, in the middle.
Teetering, hands feebly grasping at
a ghost of honesty; exhausted semblances
of passion; a weak impression of
my brilliance, which now appears
as a quickly fading shadow.
This vertigo causes me to believe
I have no choice but to let it fade.
Yet, I try. I reach, and I stretch out
this thin exuse for consciousness.
And the question freed from my chest
is stolen away into the unknown;
I hope, breathless, that someone may
hear my cry of, "Which way?"