Sluggard

A shadow hides behind me though it is not my own,
But still so much a part of me that I can not disown.
A weight is pressed upon me, and yet I take it up.
I'm starved and dehydrated, and yet I hold the cup.
It's me but not myself. 'Tis I, and yet it's not.
Hidden in my past is what the present wrought.
Incapacitates, debilitates, and hinders how I grow,
The very things that I hold true are what I do not know.
Every lesson that I've learned is now so much of me
That every one that has proved false is true as true can be.
I don't believe the lies I've heard, but live as though I do.
I seek a way to still survive the lies that live as true.
My value is not what I own, nor what I make or tame,
But neither is it who I am or my simple name.
My worth is more than this worthless existence that I am.
But who will tell me truly? For there is no one here who can.
A need I have, indeed I do, and yet it's not fulfilled.
A need to work, to mass produce, to say, “The sluggard's killed.”
And so my worth becomes my work, so I, myself, I don't
For who can bear the great burden of saying that I won't?
I can not lift myself up, nor could I climb these rungs,
And so I sink here, drowning, as “beggar” fills the lungs.
It's time to rise, to shake off sleep, but how does one awake
When the hours of the day do not give but only take?
I don't expect myself to learn, so I can not hope to change.
How does one cope when all he does is nothing but estrange?