**Technically, this is a non-rhyming piece of prose. To me, it's not even really a "poem," but I have to get this out. It's been a while since I've written.
Standing still, I see me
Blurry and pixilated
Like I'm in motion, but time is stopped
I'm lost
I'm exhausted yet I've done nothing. I stand for all, yet I stand for nothing.
I don't recognize me. I'm strong, but have no purpose. I'm weak, in the ways of myself, but not intentionally. I just don't understand me. I don't know me. I've done talented things, yet I can't repeat them. Therefore, happy accidents make up my being. I am only as good as my work, but my work is useless. It cannot be consistent. I am NEVER consistent. To have no tugging in your heart, nothing that pulls you in one direction more than another is frightening. There is no substance. I am no substance. I am an ash floating in the breeze of the world. Polluting life, not contributing. I want to know me, to make USE of me, but I cannot find myself long enough to do such. I am a shell of a person, a shadow, a distant set of instances that make up nothing.
