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In a mirror I would not dare to glare

Afraid of what I would see starring back at me

Would I see my worn torn soul?

The reflection of my horrid soul there to stare?

I would possible see my soul all bruised and scarred

By the awful realities of life's tribulations

A soul which by pain has been marred

A soul which has been ran over by a hundred tons.

A reflection of which I could not be proud

Maybe to look in the mirror and see the truth

Looking as if had been placed in the grim reaper's shroud

Of this I need no proof.

A reflection of a soul gripped by pain

A soul draped in black

Looking back at me is a soul that has nothing to gain

Wanting to hide his face in shame.

The reflection of my soul not a pretty thing

Black and bent by life's unfair game

The awful beast, my tears make him sing

To see my tormented soul, life is to blame.

Sometimes what we see reflected is an illusion. A residual image of what we believe we will see. Poetry is usually a good mirror. It shows all the stuff we need to get out. Then sometimes it is better just to leave it on the page and walk away to the next blank chapter.