You run from your friends,
You run from your family.
Your guardians, well-wishers
And from yourself.
Chained to a chair, you
Run in your head.
Legs tied to a post, you
Run from wars that haven't
Yet begun.
You re-imagine possibilities
To run from the past.
Hold on to dystopias to
Take your mind off the future.
Can't talk to anyone openly
Fearing exposal of your
Vulnerabilities, in a denial
Mode constantly - winning
Arguments with yourself
That are imaginary.
You thought you wrote for
The love of it. But sometimes
You sink in a condemnation that
Screams a fake sense of
Achievement that comes with
Writing.
Which you need for
The gratification of the 'self'
That seems to be dying.