A Crippled Depressive Left To Fester In Solitude

A Crippled Depressive Left to Fester In Solitude
The Mind Grows ripe
All of it goes in one ear and out the other
After all
There is nothing more interesting in passing the time
Than the notion itself
Especially when it's pace slows
And it's presence becomes all too noticeable
An uncanny burden is the mind which counts it's heart
As if it were an old clock                            
Desperate to shut it up                              
Irritant like the buzzing of a fly                    
Now is the time to drown out the world                
Beneath the neon glow of the placated's savior      
A desperate hue of stalemate encapsulation            
Another's vision in place of your own                
Yet, never fulfilling.
So quick, yet constant
As all merges together into a flickering mirage
Of life's mockery
Wherein the frame soon surveys the pictured
Whose existence can't compare, or so convinced.
The mind grows ripe
The mind grows dull
The library grows vast                                
A catalogue of experiences  
You may never have
But could always desire
Until even that slips away
Replaced by the blank stare of passive observation
For a time, or whatever becomes of it                
The dirge of passivity
Without motivation to sing
You can hear this man cough all night long
Forever humming on standby
To remember the rooms he once knew
In a tower now gone                                  
A million miles behind him
Or above, below, beside or ahead
It makes no difference
Being so far away.
Stirring gracelessly from sitting
Within the modern façade of solitude
Wherein even isolated
Your thoughts are not your own
And without discourse
You converse with the looped recitations              
Of an impassive compensation.
Socializing through drug purchases    
To enhance the passing of time                        
Escaping it's acknowledgement
In foggy denial
Puffs of magic dragons
Cloud a smoky mirror
Dust ridden
And desperate to deny it's reflection
Symbolic of fairytales before pipe dreams.
How many sit passively
Wishing they were the ones on screen
Dreaming of "Fitting into that red dress"
Whilst drugged and stuffed on a couch
Watching their ideals mirrored back to them
Held behind glass
Much like themselves.
How painful to the ear
The sound of neighbors never seen become
The unpleasant numb throb of interruption
Dragging you back to a world, you no longer partake in
Life beyond the room designated home
Somehow out of reach despite it's passing abundance
Cruelly shuffling in your seat
Impatiently, incapably
Restless in perpetual stultification
A fidgeting stupor
Growing more anxious by the day
Of what? if not more time
More dreaded time
To be wasted
Traffic passes uncomfortably
Thinly mocking your static nature
As the world outside grows more perceivably hostile
From within a room untarnished by sleep or company
Where intrusive thoughts are left unchecked
To be the norm, a cycle of doubts and hate
Slowly eroding any motivations
The mind learns to poison itself
Through an inability to accept such dissonance
Settling into the veneer of psychosis
Lack of anything becomes all too real
Lucid moments bring despondency
If not worse
Memory.


Video and music here - https://youtu.be/3Z8TrzT2saM?si=fifgaz8dWLVlmQ-T
Behappy