Just how I feel while writing those epic poems

I am sorry for pushing you.
It is just a dream of mine.
Been walking in your shoes
without asking you if it's fine.

I always get unpleasant
as the centre of attention
and social skills, too hesitant,
cannot provoke a mention.

So ... I've lost it there.
The will to impress with my dreams.
It's just me where
I walk on the streets emptily, it seems...

I want to withdraw and rest in a tomb
without ever talking to anyone again....
and carry in my tainted womb
the fantasy children from dreamy men...

I don't feel like a woman,
like a human,
like anything at all,
just shoed from everywhere, glueing,
so I clap, a bit distraught...

I don't have a home.
A family.
Just those silly poems.
Me, a dishonoured Emily.
I lost my shiluette in problems....

When you told me I'm beautiful
it just cut my heart with a knife
I'm boring, entertaining silence with pitiful
attempts to be an "elven wife".

Who's called a tramp?
But maybe it's justified
I shut down the lamp
and lay there, petrified.

When will I shut down myself,
that is my only aspiration,
damn all my books on a dusty shelf.
I am boredom trapped in rotation...

Each hour, just wandering around a room,
not even got hobbies or means of expression,
and when even inner voices mock my doom.
What kind of confidence can I have, in my session

of paranoid episodes,
I cannnot even trust to remain alone,
so I type down some notes,
to remind myself the letters are my home.

I hate it all, I hate your victim play,
I hate the compliments received as well.
I will soon acquire a fat shape, it's not okay.
Please tell me, how many more years in hell...