My gaoler, my bed

I live a lonely, small life, sometimes,
I shut myself off from the world.
I can’t bare to be a part of it,
with all its winding roads and dizzy heights and sweeping lows.

Sometimes I move like a swallow,
ducking and diving, quite happy to follow,
Other times I’m wrapped in a cocoon,
As though I’m still growing, locked in the womb,

Living life like a hermit crab,
at least they get to choose their shell,
I’ve never been so fucking sad,
my haven has become my hell.

When I step into the outside world,
all I can see is that its absurd,
Why are we locked up, inside these motions,
Drinking from the mainstream with such devotion?

I’ve reached an age where my hopes and dreams,
were being imaginarily fulfilled by a younger me,
I feel trapped and so frustrated,
Like finding the last unicorn, castrated.

I can’t drink water cos it’s come through the pipes,
everything’s tainted from the world Outside,
There’s no original thought, it’s all contrived,
I won’t settle for an average life,
Instead I lie here self-infantilized.

What happens when a fantasist stops dreaming?
There’s nothing left but but primal screaming,
walking on eggshells, trying to usurp my ego,
My muse absconds and I have to let go.

Nothingness brings solace, for a moment or two,
Months pass and I forget all I ever knew,
I have to cut myself to know that I’m still bleeding,
Need to scream into the sky to show that I’m still breathing.
This constant back and forth, a sport,
Played between two opposing forces,
The narcissist that tricks me into playing,
The perfectionist, that knows I’m flailing.

Because if I can’t do it right,
then I will do nothing at all,
If I don’t ever fail,
I’ll be the champion of all,
A life lived vicariously is no life at all,
But my bed is like a prison,
and I cannot walk through walls.

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