Cold metal, my skin hit by autumn rains,
Warrior in stature but lacking his emptiness,
My weapons are unseen being those of the mind,
But the trap of me damages most of all,
Yet it is reserved for those who care most.
I am a burden that no one should have,
Weight undeserved upon the pack,
Tickling and chatter mask my core,
Entrenched between expectation and reality,
And all they see is supposed growth.
Am I a plant to be watered and harvested,
Or simply being tricked out of nature,
Do I pose a threat to the beliefs of others,
In possession of something unattainable,
Should I self orient or be directed by not I?
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