There's times I mean to lose myself 
To concentrate on something more; 
But other times, I wander off 
And I'm not really thinking 
For though I have a lot to lose, 
Sometimes, my mind puts that away 
To free itself to climb, although 
I often end up sinking. 

The stairway to eternity 
That seems inviting, colorful, 
Becomes an endless loop wherein 
I struggle for a meaning; 
For though I think that I'm alone 
I bring along the weights of time, 
And it's these other spirits with whom 
I am soon convening 

It is okay to lose myself, 
But only in the service of 
A type of cleaning out of that 
Which wears away the whole, 
For there are stairs that lead somewhere, 
A somewhere that I'm meant to be: 
To lose all those mistakes I've made, 
And find, instead, 

My soul

I wish I was less selfish, and limited,
But I’m not.

I don’t deal well with chaos, or noise,
And I don’t like not knowing what’s going on.

I don’t go with the flow; in fact,
I hate the flow,
And try to stay out of it at all costs.

But it catches up with you, the flow,
And tries to drown you,
Or at least, it does me.

I don’t like crowds,
Or dogs,
Or parties;
I like solitude,
And cats,
And freedom.

I struggle against my limitations,
Because I should be
The easy-going, life of the party type,
Who rolls with the punches,
And opens his home to all at all hours, saying,
“The more, the merrier.”

So I disappoint people,
Over and over,
Who wish I was a better sort of man —

As do I.

The pieces that I’m breaking into constitute a pattern surely some will recognize:
Of withheld truth more than the more alluring, active or constructive sorts of lies

Then, there’s regret for actions taken – mostly those embarked on without thought –
To know what I’m becoming isn’t what I would have been or surely ever ought

But much like fighting gravity, I struggle vainly against character and fate;
I fight the fight, but tire – seeing little good, and surely nothing great

For age despises us, and turns us slowly into caricatures and fools,
Revealing all the flaws we hid when covered up in youth among our varied schools

I sit here with so many words, so many echoes dancing in my head –
To know, like Willy Loman, that I’m worth much less alive than I am dead;
And that, whatever comes to me, I face a time that most of us would dread,
And that I cannot fix it solving puzzles, or by words I might
Have said

I guess I ought to try to be
Attractive while I can

I guess I ought to strive to be
A better kind of man

I guess that I should try sometimes
To do the things I should

I guess it would be better if
I was something like
Good