As I Am

As I am, a young girl,
I am confused by all means.
I am years ahead of my time
Yet I am so far behind.
In the future I shall stand,
but in the present I'll fall.
It's a lousy life, but I have
chosen to live this life.
I am a girl who understands consequence,
and that is why I live life like I do.
There indeed have been perilous times,
but the energy has been kind to me.

It's strange how I do this;
Every day I dance with danger.
I challenge those with hearty egos;
therefore, I fight against myself.
Never have I tried so hard
to accomplish humbling myself.
Along with being nearly impossible,
the process is akin to tyranny:
overbearing, choking, controlling.
Isn't that how the world is?
Like a tyranny the world is.
Ironic, since the world wants to be free.

Nowadays, I am a living conflict.
I don't hurt those I hurt consciously.
Instead, I hurt them passively.
Strangely, I hurt by not doing anything.
Am I aloof, like I never thought I was?
Perhaps I'm too oblivious in my actions.
I so pine to not be that way.
However, that is as I am.
I am smashed down flat.
I've got my back against the wall.
I am held captive by my secret conflicts.
My enemies seek to prey off my energy.
Oh! I so long to escape their claws.

I hate it sometimes, being diffident.
It makes me mad, mad, mad.
And how I love a distraction,
be it of drama, music, or meditation.
And how I concentrate on it:
the chatter which determines my life.
I talk of accepting myself.
Strangely, though, I'm so afraid.
ANd how I find myself mourning
because I'm again in the gutter.
This place, oh, so familiar, yet not.
I wonder why I always struggle to leave.

Funny, how it feels, me a living paradox.
I'm not popular, yet I'm a hot topic.
Anywhere I go, I am subconciously banned.
In the end, I banish myself from there.
I'm surrounded by love but have no place to go.
I run while people chase my elusive love.
I cry tears of acid rain.
The pain of my crying stings my heart.
My twisted face, though, remains immaculate.
I am surprised the tears don't kill me.
AFter all, I'm supposed to be strong and stoic.
But someone years ago said only rocks are stoic.

I am so scared of me, that perfect stranger.
Are we supposed to know who we are?
Perhaps we're all cut from the same cloth,
or perhaps that's how it was supposed to be.
Then I'm cut from a new cloth.
However, I've seen the ages in only a few years.
My brand new exterior hides great wear.
My eyes made curtains so no one would see my
         trials.
So, I must face the world with a lead heart.
I must be stoic to save my pained life.
I must tread carefully if I want to make it
         through,
for as I am, it's a miracle I'm alive.