A cubicle is for a cubist

I’ve got a disease inside of my brain,
much like pathogen,
of a considerable strain,

I’ve grown paranoid in every paragraph,

a parable of Icarus and the sun, have I flown too close?
and now what have I done?.

I see visions of happiness,
in Picasso-like precision,
 but my heaven’s broken into tiny prisms,

where the light reflects
my inhibitions,

though I pander still.