Poetry, Poetry, Poetry. =]

What I know of me, myself and I,
Amounts to more than meets the eye,
The depths that others cannot see,
I cannot hide myself from me,


My actions and my motives known,
To me and He on Heavens throne,
So to my heart I must be true,
Fully genuine, through and through,


So that I, my own respect may earn,
Or under guilty conscience burn,
I desire to hold my head high in truth,
Shed the facades of my deceitful youth,


For I cannot live with myself, be sure,
If I know my motives are not pure,
So that if my actions should come to light,
I can know that my heart was true and right.


--


This weight is pressing, crushing down,
Stress without reason or rhyme,
I feel a mild panicked sensation,
Growing slowly in the back of my mind,


Apprehensive without just cause,
Tightening in my chest,
More difficult to concentrate,
With every shallow breath,


An overwhelming fog descends,
Clouding up my thoughts,
A suffocating, invisible enemy,
That cannot be seen or fought.


--


My heart is heavy, dearest,
So often do I sigh,
For want to see that look,
Of tender longing in your eyes,


Slow and tired are my steps,
Of waiting I grow weary,
Like waiting for the sun,
In this weather, grey and dreary,