The Agony of Reality

If this is reality, then why does it feel so agonistic to my soul and just?
It is this foul winters’ slapping gust
That wants one to conform their “abnormal” psyche to certainty,
But I want my surrealist mind, and I can only hallucinate the senses of reality.

Can a flame live, breath and burn
In a mold of ice?
I have nowhere else to turn,
The realist world is not very nice.

And why is it when I walk down this surrealist, slush-ridden path
That my shoes don’t damp?
Sometimes I feel it is an innate wrath
When I suffer from writer’s-cramp.

Am I the flame?
Realism
and surrealism
are not the same!

Though I stand in the corner, I am the flame,
But the light shines not from what realists can see.
I’ve been there my whole life,
Its solitude quite hellish; loud with internal strife.

We all stare at corners; at what’s veiled within them;
And we don’t like who we see within cause’ they’re reticent.  
I don’t like what I see hiding in the corner either, yet I stand there too!
I love me, yet I despise me. I can’t hate what I am, nor will I change it.

I am me
And not you.
You are you
And I’m glad you’re not me.

All my realistic thoughts subdued,
Like a drunkard swigging wine.
Keep you to your solitude
and me to mine.