I Am Not Myself

I am not myself.

I am compelled by forces

too great to bear.

To write of sins and secrets,

truth and lies,

great and small things,

beloved and despised.

I am not myself.

I am heartache and joy.

Generations of pain,

and the potential to rise above.

I am not myself.

I am conspiracies and facts,

the desperate search for the truth,

like shifting shadows

in oceans of sand.

I am not myself.

I am the cry for justice,

and the instinct for retribution.

The rage that reduced the world to cinders,

sprung from the stinging tears of a lonely child.

I am not myself.

I am beliefs I cannot explain,

illogic I cannot account for,

instinct wholly it's own entity

that will not answer to you,

and certainly not to me.

I am not myself.

I am feverish with drive,

sick with motivation,

dying of determination,

for ideals and dreams I cannot fathom.

I am not myself.

I am so much I cannot control,

all the things born beyond me

that have coalesced into my existence.

And drive me forward

ever forward.