Nothing so concrete as wondering
the who I am of me is quite intact
The problem lies in interaction
navigating the floodwaters of maintaining
an outward appearance
Transparency through creativity
I'm an open book through self expression
though it only is surface level
The loudest thoughts dominate the translation
escape only possible through release
Isolation beginning to pace
back and forth back and forth
wearing a trench in my mind
I find myself gravitating towards attention
adoration and praise so beautiful
yet so painfully sad
I really don't want accolades
I appreciate the adoration
reaching people is a powerful feeling
The output is out of my hands
I pull from the pool random discordant bits
and there's no guarantee that it will make sense
wrapping myself in some sort of bandage
that might only be for show
I exist in a bright bubble of loneliness
knowing many but in a shallow dish
just out of arm's reach
