Their words are sharp and eyes are flittering;
Their thoughts are way beyond my influence.
Yet I am glass that needs no tempering;
And I am sharp enough to make them tense.
Now this is me: a dead and broken thing.
So hollow, stripped of all past hope and dream;
And so these streets are paved with old feeling—
Some, most, no, all are mine and my requiem.
But still I’ll try to be ideally—
Just me: (Or in this case much more than that.)
The me you’ve never pictured me to be.
(And I’ll still leave you wondering on what.)
(Still thinking; this is me just feeling you—
Becoming that: the you you want me to.)