Quagmire

When I look in the mirror and wonder who the fuck it is that's looking back, does that make me a monster, madman, or is being a mystery to me okay?

When I look back on my years I feel quite the same. I've been walking down this path a long time, thought I'd gone such a long way. When I stopped to take a breath and look back, I saw no tracks. I was standing in two small pits like I had been marching in place.

Left right In a quagmire treading muddy water. A quicksand limbo land, a putrid log in a swampy bog. It doesn't matter how it's read, it's the same nightmare in my head. My headstones already being carved, my cemetery plot already dug, and I don't even know if I'm alive.

My lungs are full of air that burns like despair. I've drowned in another bottle and I don't think I care. Because when I look around at the same old crushing walls, hearing the same old constant calls, my soul sinks into shadow that shades my inner light, causing me to faulter, to fall.

A candle on a waterfall, my delicate mind state, fighting fate. Trying to find a piece of me I recognize clearly and a future peace in a place I wish to be, simply happy.

How will I know what it takes to make me?