I can't remember when it came,
Or why it drew itself.
But scripted in these words so tame,
Is someone, something like myself.
I've used a mirror once before,
And what I saw I can't recall.
It must of been a vision poor,
Cryptic, dark or not at all.
If I'm a ghost then why the pain,
Of holding all this guilt.
How can-I clean my quiet name,
How-can happy be rebuilt.
It can't, it can only be reborn,
From the death of something less.
And like the windows of a storm,
They never save you from its best.
The best of something bad is never good.
And I see the weather crawling.
I could barely stand when I stood,
I always feel like falling.
