The Fear

I oft find myself torn across the streets of my working mind,
filling time,
like I do the hole,
in my soul.
I oft find myself awash with tiresome wonder,
that somehow keeps me wide awake and rips my sanity asunder.
I feel as if, by chance, it is the case that I may never find recluse,
in enshrouding my deeper thoughts and feelings in surface thoughts: a ruse.
I tell myself that it may just very well be the case,
that all of which I do is due to a simple race:
a race against a lonely heart,
that cannot bear the pain to start,
to experience a life outside an environment so stalwart.
I tell myself that it may quite likely be the case,
that all of which I do is due to a simple race:
a race against a crooked soul,
to crawl and clamber toward a goal,
and take back a smile of ole,
that from my youth: my growth once stole.

And when I feel such things- such callous, impenitent things,
my fingers pluck invisible strings,
laid out against the unkempt edges of my fingernails.
My eyes grow white in fear and anxious wonder,
and my sight goes bright in colours crystal clear;
and bolder are my lies to myself about the reasons,
that I run the other way faster than the seasons,
from this light-less, dark-less nothingness,
that persists to exist,
within the depths of my character- very muchly like a cyst.
'Tis an absence that, like an unshaken hand, is impossible to miss.

O', how I long to stand upon a knoll and look out upon the world from the summit of Mt. Everest.
To be a child, wide awake and blind,
content to find my only worries to be the things that exist within my mind.
O', how I strive to find a way to feel alive,
that does naught to disparage a sense of comfort that I derive,
from forever moving forth in life, trying to do my best.

O', how I detest the very notion that I should have to rest.
How could I rest? I cannot rest. I shall not rest until I feel as if I have done my very best.
O', how I tire, how I ache, and how I strain to find a way to feel alive again,
that does naught to destroy the sense of progress that I've built on my journey to obtain,
the end-result from the attainment of my goal, that I've to gain.
O', how I long for a reprieve from this distress that turns me sideways off my feet when I am forced to take a rest.
O', how I wish it weren't a necessity that I surrender to the feeling of my tire- to ignore my senseless wonder.
O', how I know, the importance of my sleep but I oft find myself consumed in ponder, deep.

But what if I should never get to feel that sense of awesome splendour?
To stand upon a knoll and see a mountain-view?
What if I should never come to feel wide awake and blind again?
Content to find my only worries to be the things that exist within my mind? What then?
What if all my work in serving such a purpose is nothing but a waste,
and I shall never get to taste that sweet smile of ole,
that from my youth: my growth once stole?
What if I am lost for all my time- doomed to feel impenitent things,
for my fingers to pluck invisible strings,
laid out against the unkempt edges of my fingernails?
What if I shall forever reside within a loop of fear and anxious wonder,
my sight, bright, in colours crystal clear?
What if all I do is just an endless race against an imaginary thing?
What if all I'm really doing is running from the sting,
of the emptiness I feel deep within the heart of me,
this heart inside: this lonely heart,
that beats itself apart,
into a million tiny pieces, all impossible to see?

O', dice, o', dice of the great bountiful universe:
build me a world, a life of mine, so much infinitely less cursed.
O', build me a world in which I haven't a hole within my heart to fill,
and keep my thoughts and feelings still;
stable within a cradle of a vat of unrepent.
A vat of shameless un-wanting content,
that ensures that all my energies are spent-
every cent -on that goal that seems to wash away,
every time I feel those callous- impenitent things,
which once robbed me of the feeling of which I fondly recall,
my passions did once bring.

And if I can't, if I shan't, feel that unbridled contentedness,
o', dice, o', dice of the great bountiful universe: may you at the very least grant me the strength to best such stress?
A strength that grants the stamina to keep my run unfaltered in my escape from the sting of the emptiness I feel deep within the heart of me,
this heart inside: this lonely heart,
that beats itself apart,
into a million tiny pieces, all impossible to see.
A strength so great that through sight alone, bright in colours crystal clear,
I can imagine the sensation,
the other-wordly gratification,
one would feel when they stand upon a knoll and look out upon the world from the summit of Mt. Everest.