Sitting at the desk with paper and pen,
slipping away from the task at hand,
was I really so wrong to distract myself?
Was I really so wrong to push my thoughts away?
Inner demons struggle to find the weakest flesh,
eating away at my utmost personal thoughts,
creating a cocoon of misery,
suffocating me in my premature absurdity.
What if I'd been stronger?
What if I'd been able to change something?
Questions buzz around my head,
like bats caught in a cage,
screeching to be let out into the night.
Flashes of nightmares and past events mix together,
only blending to a crimson colored fate,
choking on the words of my own survival,
giving way to alarming thoughts of hate.
Why do these things haunt me so?
Why can I not just let it all go?
So instead,
I push it away,
block up the cell for now,
ignore the demonic tunes of misery,
and get back to the task at hand.
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