Wrestling with this inferiority complex,
confounded by the unkind realities of truth.
Pessimism is my self-preservation reflex,
I’m not a believer, with absence of proof.
There are caverns where I retreat,
my own corner of self-imposed exile.
Lay low until the demons fleet,
and I feel confident to absent my domicile.
Reach for the tangible, only to find it impalpable,
there’s a fragile balance I must maintain.
Damaged; sentenced to the damnable.
always the abyss, my domain.
So close to the brink,
I fight to hold myself back,
the edge is closer than you think,
a vulnerable veneer, is one easy to crack.
Indistinguishable conversations, converging: a monotonous drone,
losing my grip, the mechanics of stability;
starting to slip. In this crowd I want to run, to be alone,
I cede; a hostage to my debility.
A montage, a collage of illustrations; creations in my head,
contorted and distorted, twisted scenes.
My diet; my butter and bread,
feed my sleepless dreams.
©2016 Kathleen Stefani and Combing The Catacombs, unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express written permission from the sites author is strictly forbidden.