vorago-animus

I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. I'm not supposed to admit that. That's wrong, but yes, it's true. I wear the tie; sign with the Pen, The Brush, she is my fleeting friend. I don the smile; there is no end. This is not what I want to do. "Then what," they ask, "what do you want?" And I know not what I should. I never took the time to find myself. I thought what I knew, what they told me, was good. But that's not enough. That isn't me.   Not who I think I want to be. My eyes say "Please, just help me see. This is all so very wrong." And the tears, they never ever fall. That's not what I'm supposed to do. And I