The Mirror

Looking through this mirror as if it's a window,
What I see isn't me, because im trapped in this conundrum,
Wondering why my eyes are still gleaming,
For they haven't been moistened yet by those similar feelings,
And as I look through this window barely seeing the light bouncing,
Off of my face projecting it, but its not me.
I can see right through me, and it seems so clear,
that my discontent is forever at its stratosphere.
Paused in this pose with my disposition,
Wondering why im harmed so by the juxtaposition,
Of similarities between you and I;
This man in the window,
Living my life waiting until I can unleash,
Like Jekyll and Hyde with a teasing crescendo,
Leading up to an apex, that just isn't me,
Saddened and weakened, and involuntarily maddened.
And with I little bit of inspiration at your explanation,
I will show NO exaggeration at my heart's lacerations,
And in the occasion my heart beats stronger than ever,
I will just look back in that mirror at what's lost forever,
Incased in a layer of shells;
My self esteem like Russian dolls gets smaller until,
It's frail and easily broken,
And like a feather it falls down forever.
Mirroring what I see in my mirror, is the juxtaposition of my character,
As if my world was split by water,
And as my discontent rises, my self esteem sinks getting smaller.
So I don't even bother, learning how to swim,
Because if I attempt to get close to you, it will happen again.
Happy to begin reshaping the Picasso I see through this kaleidoscope,
But as I put together this jigsaw, the image isn't clear,
And when the scope turns black, the glimmer of hope isn't here.
And my heart is controlled, by some other Deity,
And my heart's like a tin man, not where it needs to be,
It's plain to see in me that you're the only divinity,
An angel that's use to fluttering, and now has its wings clipped inside me,
So as I am searching for the secret, you look at me with eyes of regret,
Saying ill choke wondering how the muscles in the throat work,
But I still have to find out why it's not there.
Having to confront sorrow daily, as it turns its back on my evaluation,
Ending with water being thrown in my face on several occasions.
Then looking back at the window, looking forever into me,
And him looking back,
Yes, he is looking back,
With a water stream in his eyes, as he looks back,
Asking why I get off track, thinking my way back,
Teaching me how to act, as if I've gotten myself back,
But it hasn't happen; I'm still there
Floating endlessly in bliss.
Just to master myself as the class is already dismissed,
So the teaching doesn't please, if I haven't heard the lesson,
So I walk around blank, with no absolute expressions,
Making the impression, that I am a mindless walking dead,
When really I'm the allegory of the scarecrow stuck in his own head.