Why do I feel
So surreal;
Wandering in doubt,
Longing for something real?
I assure myself
I'll be just fine,
But why do I sense a gap
In this vacant soul of mine?
Where is the warmth I did once conjure,
Formulating words so that they might come true;
Stringing phrases one by one
And singing them with words so few?
Why must I be so impatient,
Racing to burn out expectations,
Settling for less than my imagination?
Where did I go wrong?
Is it something in the allergy shots
Or the whirl of my vertigo?
What about the monotonous nausea
And the pain coursing through my toes?
Do I fill what I'm missing
With artificial anxiety
That my sister keeps telling me
Is what I think is real?
So, run, all you pretty boys;
I don't want to hear your noise.
Put away your teasing ploys
And ruses bent to idly toy.
Clad in black yet bright as day,
I seal thee deep: begone dismay,
And take with you the fabricated ways
My brain tried to compensate
For the thing I dread, the thing I hate,
The hole so small with baggage so great,
I pretend it's gone away.
