Us and Them

I often wonder:
"What separates this from me?"
"Where do the edges around my form stop
and the edges of this object begin?"
Objectively.
What defines "This" from "Me"?
Where are the bold line we all claim to see?

Do you claim this authorship?
Can anyone?
I feel that life is slipping from my grasp
and draining into these things that I surround my self with.
But something keeps me piling them up
against the onslaught of eternity.

As if I can encapsulate my self in them.
As if they are the amalgamation of my self.
As if I can be remembered by the objects I pour myself into,

but they are poured into me and I am left to the mourning of them.
For they feel me not,
nor do the fear the passing of time.
nor do they fear the loosing of mind.

I hold my self under the influence of them as long as I can stand
and still it does not help,
and still I  am left without the gratitude they are deserving.

I will never learn,
not like the things in my life,
not like the lie I choose to be surrounded by.
So when you look upon my life,
when you take the time to analyze my holdings,
remember that I chose these things to quantify my life.
I chose where to define the lines between what is "I" and what is "Mine"