Spike

It does not matter how long I grind the heels of my hands into my eyes--
When I open them I will still be looking for things I won't find.
Places I don't want to be but should.
Things I should not be but am.
Maybe it's just the fever talking, but that doesn't mean it's not true.

And yet it's not just one place that I do not want to be
But rather, any place that I would be alone
It is not just one thing that I would rather I was not
But rather, many things I wish I could claim
And I still seek recognition in each face that crosses my path

But what matters? If you could answer that question
It would itself become obsolete.
How strange it is, to be always running
And not knowing where your feet are taking you
Or if you even want to go.
Do I?
Another useless question.

Heroes must be driven and strong and good
So why take the name and responsibility
When the name embodies something I am not?
Fierce and fearful
Where would such a combination even venture
To  make a difference?

And yet
These questions may not be here tomorrow--
Because if my head shatters as it feels like it might,
Neither will I.
How dramatic.