To be, to act, or act upon, and in what portions? That is the question

The pains

of reflection;

so many facets

as sharp shards

of our own

page of stage.

Seeking the set

where others reflect from.

How do we look

upon what we might imagine

we want to be

seen as?

How perverse the need

for other windows

upon which to grind

the meat

of what we feed

back on.

You ask,

in the echos chambered

in the mind revolver

you cannot aim,

where's the edge

to cleave between

too little and

too much of being

an actor presenting

creative facts

of destruction.

Tearing down to buld

fragile shells

legoing as both the wall

and the thing

to humpty dumpty from.

We've cast

our minds as parts

of toys we make

to believe in,

even as we watch

what they show

us of what we've made

of play.

And thus becomes

a drug

for the power

in recognition and

the final zero sum

competiion of being

made of more

than the other guy.