another dizzy day—
and i do nothing.
my heart is made of
little more than rock,
'neath which i've found
a perfect hiding spot.
like a hermit crab, i'm
hiding in the cracks
of my own mind,
waiting for the day
i'll find an empty shell.
to be sure, i can't forget
that i alone procure a way
for my own self—and yet
this idleness, it reeks of
hesitation; miasma haunts
my tentative attempts
to take some steps
forwards for once.
just what, exactly, do i
hold my tongue for?
why is it that i
stutter on my words?
i do not lack the nerve
to make my thoughts known,
it's only with my heart
that i'm reserved—
and this has served me
to a point, but not beyond.
though i am fond of all i am,
still i know i have not
earned the shell i carry;
some sort of changeling
i am taking up a space
that once belonged
to someone else. its not
a question of deserves,
so people tell me—
but what's the point if
i'm defined by others' help?
