No more and no less.

What am I to do? Do I ponder,
Waste more time, stare vacantly as my future
Disperses with the raindrops while my past
Clings to me, restless, unsettled, verging
On disturbed. My only even remote
Possibility was this, that it has failed,
However, does not surprise me in the slightest.

I am not stupid, I am better
Than that, but there is something not quite
Right. I do not understand what it is
That I have done or am doing that is
So misplaced. I just want to help, I like to know
That others are provided for. I have to know
I have done everything in my power
To make a difference.

If something goes wrong I become protective
Of some, disrespective of others. The list
Is endless, its strange. Weird and wonderful
Does not even come close to how I am
Feeling now. It is not like I am
Suicidal or anything, I know I do not reflect
Very well on myself, but my writing is
Simply a release, please do not take it
As fact. Nothing is real in a world
Of prose, it is tagged as fictional, and that is truly
What it is. I know no more and no less
Than I write.

I am scared, yes, though I know not
Of what. I am lost, yes, though I know not
Wherein. I am lonely, yes, though interaction
Is second nature. I am wishful in thinking,
Yes, though I know not
What for. I am willing in spirit,
Yes, though I know not wherein
the body ends and the spirit begins.

I wish most for interaction, satisfaction
In a fraction of action held back
Only by traction requiring an ease
Of release, through peace
Of mind, body
And spirit.
Please.