As I sit here,

without it, I wonder.

The constant 

acceptance and rejection,

acceptance, rejection

where ever this goes.

I accept that I am my own. I accept I'm not,  

at all. 

The lesson seems yet to be learned but I've passed it every 

time it gets late. 

The breath becomes my own. 

The thoughts 

become my own,

once again I'm left in plain sight, 

unknown.

What am I doing this for ?

If it ever is for me, 

how do I let it be true

to me ?

to them ?

for me ?

for whom I consider it all, 

to feel what can't 

be seen.

Or felt, for that matter.

To ever hold the truth, 

to each their own, 

never to be seen twice.

Or at all, for that matter.

In faith of fate and the survival

as it goes on

and on,

forgetting and forgiving 

and holding on as tight as I can but falling

down.

Predicting what won't go on.

It seems that I'd never know

if it all was ever

predictable, so it must go on

and on

revolving around the only thing worth 

holding.