I'm getting tired of the wearing, and the tearing on my soul.

I can't take much more waging of my war, it takes an ugly toll.

If I sit here in my secret space, my face pressed against the glass,

I can't help but point out the mistakes I have possessed in the past.

In the mirror, through my eyes, I see tears that glisten true,

And a fake, courageous smile to help the image just pull through,

And as I look deeper down, into the image in my eyes,

I find all the truths that hid behind each teensy, little lie.

And As I keep on searching, I knock down walls of pain,

And I stop my searching, to build them again.

I may have had a brick or stone building in my heart,

But each and every prick or two has broken it apart.

Every tear that builds the stone, every clenched fist seals it,

Mortar and stone, layers and more, that just build up with it.

I may not be the strongest shield, or have the sharpest sword,

But the first place goes for the one who's feelings are a ward.

So if you took a step inside my shoes that are all worn by time,

I think you'll find the warring message inside this mystic rhyme.