Is that me behind the mirror?

Is that me behind the mirror?
Is that a tear?
Running down my face.
Are those eyes real?
Do they feel what I feel?
Am I not alone in my torment?
Are those deep pools of green true?
Am I real?
Or is he the real one?
Is he sincere, or mocking me,
Like so many others?
I shall not let him mock me.
I shall not fall into that mirror
I shall be me.
Not a mirror. Not a reflection
I will belong to me.
No reflection can hold me
I can shatter him
He and his mocking, lying eyes
Mongering fake sympathy.
Mongering hate and false justice.


Wait. Though he be
but a shattered remnant
made of the multitudinous
Pieces, the eyes stair through.
The madness in them,
It is consuming.
It is debilitating
I cant stand it.
Though he be shattered,
How can he still hold so much over me?
How does he still speak to me?
He has no mouth.
Only eyes.
Ten, no 20, no 50 eyes
All staring at me
All with the same false sympathy
How does this madness perverse me?
How can he still do this?

I will turn off the light
I will make him no more
But even with the light off,
I still hear his voice
I still feel those eyes
They see through me like glass
All those eyes
All the pain
All the lies
They continue to stare
I turn on the light
And the eyes are still there
Back again.
Back to torment me.
I banish him with the switch
But he remains
He steps forward instead of back
His grin drives my soul to madness
Why is he here?
Am I his quarry?
What does he want?
How is he here?

Why is the world black now?
What are those sirens?
Why am I so cold,
Though surrounded by a pool of warmth?
Why does my hair stick to me?
Why does my body not work?
Did the madness win?
Am I nothing but a slave to it?
How am I here on the pavement?
Why is he standing over me,
With that same maddening grin?

This poem is... odd reading it makes me shutter and look over my sholder. i dont like it.