me

Do you see the bags underneath my eyes?

It's all the restless sleeping and ship sinking

I'd rather have a paper bag over my head

it would provide a more finite representation

what am I to do?

what does a picture hope to possibly capture?

a man, 18 now

with a slipping mind 

and a slipping grasp of self

a cracked foundation

a bridge fire gaining traction 

a smile that covers the doubt

the doubt that plauges my thoughts

the thoughts about thoughts 

thinking about thinking more than actually thinking

about thoughts that would allow me to progress

a picture captures a moment in time

but all my moments are the same

a man who lives in the comfort of his head

and crumbles under reality

my true self cannot be seen 

with or without a filter

I have to to try and kid myself

that I'm living a life that is ultimately mine

even after I've stolen lines

to supplement my frustrations

an endless quest

to be perfect

might never come through

ending with endless want

so do you see the bags underneath my eyes?

I'm broken, and no filter can fix that

no matter what

no one will see the true me

what does that make myself then?

I'll never know

and I'm content with that