Slivers and Shards

I am not, for
I am become the anachronism
Among actors I wear no mask
For my very flesh and bone
is a drama set against me
And every tearing fiber, every ripping seam
Is only an illusion, and I
Out of place
Reside within the wrong puzzle-box, for
Even those jumbled
Still have some place to land
Even those broken
Are pieces like unto the set, yet
I do not own in any way belonging, and so am
to the point of desire
To rip out the blood red eyes from this head
To scream and suffocate on the sweat
from this stranger’s bed
To lie among crow’s feathers and feces
and call myself an owl
So as to wearily ascend
And never return
Save by a piercing screech
and hallowed howl
And that moonlit night with its
weakening scowl
And then descend
And land among the water fowl
A dripping, drowning grave to make
Is that my only fate
Or am I to acquiesce to a doctrine of...
Of no action, no nothing, nothing but...
In a world where worth weighs on what I can do
For the good, for the them, for the me, for the you
But...
IT’S NOT MY WORLD!
This is a hopeless, hollow home, these brittle bones
The mirror mocks and so do your compliments, your opinions
STOP!
...please...leave me alone.
I don’t know who you are, and as
For me, there’s really nothing to know; this
Is really a one-way street, and something
Probably got lost in translation
‘Cause your club’s code is one I don’t know
But let me play along just one more hour
or so
And I’ll show you how much one tiny glitch (like me)
can make your whole system crash...