I'm as delusional as I've ever been.
No interest in joining the world in the daily grind today.
The blank spaces of life, the time spent doing nothing
get's greater with the hold depression's got over my head.
And inside it, a groove that spoke to me
and said my place in this world.
Notching me in to a space I belong.
Alone. At my desk. It isn't so bad.
I belong in this book, on this page.
Again and I again I tell myself
I'm some sort of superhero.
I can change the world from the darkness
that midnight brings to my desk.
If I'm unable to to fulfill the job,
the weight of how horrible I am
at taking care of myself falls over me.
A loud thunderstorm of thoughts.
Remind me I can't be good enough,
again and again.
The storm starts to quiet down. . .
I'm left dealing with the aftermath.
The flood of reality telling me -
I'm a nothing again and again.
Where's the superhero,
where's the weight of the world?
It's the sickness that caught up with me,
the pressure of needing to give back to my world,
that has sacrificed all it has, to keep me happy.
But I fail to be.
