Am I the Person they want You To Be?

Behind the hazel eyes of a man who I don't know dances the reflections of the moon
caught in the street lights
and I can watch the confusion swim and the true self fight.
He's turning into the pious fish
the temporary cush and crush,
the winter rush,
the Coyote toy,
the misinterpreted joy,
and then the struggle of a story.
He shifts his form so he can pretend he's given up the grudge.
He picks up the shovel and works with vigor
but inside those starry eyes, I see water and sober liquor.
I see the grudges and the time he was promised he wouldn't have to wait,
the inner debate,
the inertia he uses to compensate.
I decode the hatred behind his smile.
I discover the existential crisis of needing to savor what he cannot enjoy.
I find the man admitting he's nothing but a toy
being thrown from where the frost trees never yield
to the fields
where what he is a disease
and there's nothing worth less
than exactly what he needs;
somebody to tell him the truth about time and how much he has
stuck in the forced cement commitment.
How long can he remain in a world where all his traits are sicknes
and the people around him shout it with god as their witness?
What an afraid slave.
He manipulates the voice inside his head
to become a machine for what needs to be misinterpreted:
fag means good man; kike means love;
lazy after 9 hours of shovel labor is a complement; slut never means slut;
no, you're not their bitch, pretending to be who they want you to be;
the concept of coming home is hope; the way the world turns;
me.
The program is working him and it's not him working the program.
The bullshit throws him off balance and he's scolded for the way he stands
the way he breaths
the way he sees
the methodology of his voice
the solum surrender of choice.
Judgement slams down on everything from the empty fullness of his eyes
and the filament that colors the blood in his pigment
and the pure fear that if he doesn't pass their impossible test
that everyone important to him will love him less.
The days would sludge on and the next day would never come.
He wishes he could just skip forward the months
to avoid the taunting cycle of the corrupt run sun.

Then I wake up.
I stare into the mirror to avoid what I cannot avoid:
when I stare into my eyes, I realize how pointless it is to defy;
I still see the same, terrified, abandoned, program boy.