I’m on a hunt for distraction.

I rip through my portfolio of apps seeking respite,

my soul yearning for attention.

Its open wounds fester, dirty and unkempt.

As long as I’m entertained, the dull pain is secondary.

As long as I never focus, nothing will be acute.

The scaffolding I’ve pretended is a castle

now feels like a prison.

To acknowledge it for what it is would mean letting

go of what I wished it was,

What I convinced myself it was

I built this.

I built this prison.

I wanted to pretend I was a prince when I was already a king.

Trading my crown for ball and chain.

Stuck.

Sinking deeper into the mud of my tear swamp.

Blurry.

Vision blocked by the bars.

Ego defining the good life.