Whispers of the Soul

OCD

A Prison of Rituals

Within these four walls, a cage I have made,
A fortress of habits where sunlight won't fade.
Each morning awakens the ticking of clocks,
As I dance through the motions, bound tight in my locks.

The ritual begins with the sun's gentle rise,
A sip of black coffee, a whispered reprise.
The list of perfection is etched in my mind,
Each task a chain link, each movement designed.

I line up my shoes in a neat little row,
And count every step as I walk to and fro.
The world beyond beckons with laughter and light,
But I stay in my prison, confined by the night.

The clock hands are soldiers, each tick a command,
In this regimented life, I barely can stand.
The echoes of order, they comfort and sting,
Yet within their embrace, I feel not like a king.

A glance at the window reveals skies vast and wide,
Yet my heart holds a struggle, my spirit can't glide.
For freedom's a whisper, a breath out of reach,
In this cell of my making, no lessons can teach.

I wash my hands twice, and I count to ten,
In the cycle of rituals, I'm trapped once again.
The world spins around me, unbothered, alive,
While I spiral in circles, just fighting to survive.

What if I dared to step off the straight line?
What if I ventured outside of the shrine?
But fear grips my throat like a vice made of steel,
And the weight of my patterns becomes all too real.

Each rule that I follow, a thread in my net,
A safety net woven with every regret.
But I long for the chaos, the mess of it all,
To stumble and falter, to rise when I fall.

So I gather my courage, I dream of the day,
When I'll break through these walls and learn how to play.
For life is not measured by lines that I draw,
But by moments of freedom, of wonder, and awe.

In the shadows of routines, I'll carve out a space,
To dance with my fears, to run and to race.
And though it may take me a lifetime to find,
I'll break free from this prison, and reclaim my own mind.