It’s ironic I’m willing to dwell in asylum

This feeling won’t leave me,
It presses harder with my footsteps.
What is it, following me ceaselessly,
Keeping me alert wherever I am?

If you ask me, I won’t give an answer.
You told me to write it down—so I started leading a diary.
Anyone would confuse my notes for a psycho’s.
It’s ironic that I’m willing
To dwell in asylum.

Because—

I worry about people who don’t deserve it.
I’m scared I’ll forever be skulking from problems.
And why do I only feel happy and free
When I daydream, walking in circles for years?