Quicksand

I stare in the mirror for hours
wondering who I might have been.
Reflections of something familiar,
distant visions, I'm sure are real.
If this stress don't kill me
I know this harsh cold air will,
electrifying everything I touch
sometimes the mistakes are just too much.
Nothing seems right to me,
this weight of reality is too much for me.
I see in the distance
an unmistakable image
of something I wanted to be
and someone I wanted to see.
I am again
at an end,
making me mad
makes me sad.