Who am I?

Am I just a person destined for folly,

A name, barely a scribble on a transparent piece of paper;

Fearful of smudging or a hero etched in marble?

Boy, I would love to know.

Who are thee, boy staring back at me;

Leering with souls of brown; mixed with pale gray and earthen green.

Do they reflect me and these burdens I see?

Do I sit here and watch you mock my struggles?

Am I a writer who is fearful of what his mind animates on paper,

Or merely scared of who I might be in the innermost part of myself;

Writing of what could've been? Tell me, please!

Tell me now! I demand it this instant you wretched façade.

My existence, why is it?

All one can do is sigh and gaze at a reflection with ripples,

Distorting his cognizance, before he scrambles farther into the labyrinth.

Minotaur? I already possess one.

Will you pull through, just enough to pull me ashore?

With this tale, feeling confusion within my brokenness,

This burnt energy, I grow weak from overuse still haven't found who I am.

I fasten my armor and fight the day's monsters,

Another reflection gazes a child whimpering in the corner,

Protected solely by an old rusty shield as weak as he.

"Stop it, stop claiming you know anything about me!" he steadily yells.

Mockery at its best, the longer I travel, evading all that lusts me,

I…I run Circles in this labyrinth—far from freedom.

Every nook filled with 'shadows;' growing ever lustful from fear's aroma,

Tasting anxiety that trails off like the scent of flowers.

Forever tantalized by with their inconsonant hunger further into a frenzy.

Fine! Take me; I'm already snared;

These strings between my fingers were once in my control,

A gentle tug here--then a stiff pull there grants the usual stares.

I fall, and they watch me dance with every stumble they actively laugh;

Harder and harder, consuming more of my delicious essence more fear,

Am I no more than a marionette on a stage, wooden in presence,

Doubtful there is more to life.

There, it anchors me in eternity, something to last forever.

Hereupon this decaying path, I remain in a purgatorial sheen;

Left to wonder if I am more or less like Sisyphus.

Who am I?