Tired try

I am tired of trying to cater to
_the faces I see in the crowd
_the thoughts I hear when the music is loud
_the anger that fills a strangers house
_the wrath of countries far away
Nobody can stand to
_fill the space
_play the ace
_forget what they have been searching for
_tell a lie
Don't you wish that you could see
_the glorious things you would like to be
_the world as it is meant to be
_everything working to a tee
_something different, something free
Is the future what you want to know?
_Or is it something you'd prefer not to?
_How far can you go?
_Can you go slow?
_Would you wait until I show?
Does everything fade, does it even exist?
Did you know you would be missed?
There are those who would sit and wait
simply because they believe it fate,
But I grow tired of sitting still,
so now, I bend fate to my will.

Considerations

I would not be the first to say
that I have never felt this way:
a pressing need, desire in flux,
morality placed in a crux.

As men fall victim to their vice
and reality as cold as ice
they feel compelled to reconsider
everything that made them better.

Who can be everything they try to be?
Only those who only see what they want to see?
And when it comes time to face the facts
and one must retrace their tracks,

What is it that will push through,
and what is it that will fall away?

Reset

She sways away
seeing things
she should not see
being things
she should not be
believing things
that make her retch
washing away the memories
and naive beliefs of yesteryear
waiting for her dreams to catch
and for someone to hit reset
on the things she knew
but would not admit
and she spins out
with nothing as a center
erratic and unpredictable
unbound by physics
defying rules
she's off the hook
but she won't look
there is no one in the mirror
looking back at her
"Don't take my hand;
Don't guide my way;
Don't make me stay;
Don't let me go."
she stands up straight
and walks away
"Doesn't mean a thing to me,
you don't mean a thing to me."
She walks away
and, god, it's dark
as she leaves her empty room
and heads out to face the gloom.

What am I?

What am I
to think of on these
repeating, sleepless days
that fade into each other
likeghostsandmemories,
when I cannot begin to imagine
this thing called "future"
and these things called "feelings"
and when everything comes down
it would appear that
I am blind
and naive
but hopeful
and in this I am rendered hopeless
and I believe that I can see the air
transparent in my vision
rising,
colder,
escaping the atmosphere
and it is almost like I refuse to accept
this confluence of time
in my long past midnight babble
even though I know
that I cannot be above
the passage of the hours.

Story's end

I was wondering if your adventures
are as grand as you make them seem,
or if that is only a wish of mine,
a hope, a naive dream.
So what would make you say these things,
if only for my sake-
or could it be that you are not real,
a friend I had to make?
The fated words you tell to me
are nothing if not aglow,
and yet, somehow,
I still feel that I have been left below.
So when the story's end has come,
and time has left you deaf and dumb,
remember as I call thee hence
that your "self" is your best defense
and when the sky falls,
do not cry,
For imagination
never dies.